


Damaged

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Abusive Relationships, Angst, Blood and Torture, Dark Sam Winchester, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/F, F/M, Hallucinations, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Mental Instability, Past Child Abuse, Psychic Abilities, Rough Sex, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:13:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is in trouble, Cas is lost, and Sam is definitely not an ordinary junkie. Andy is better than you. Someone's got big plans and all sorts of shit is going to go up in flames.<br/>But not literal shit.<br/>A dark story, AU with more or less the same supernatural elements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Strained Hearts and Barely Coherent Preamble

**Author's Note:**

> ALRIGHT KIDS. before you all board the hello train to THIS STORY, let me tell you a couple things:
> 
> First off, please note that this is a prologue. I've been planning this fic for a while but I'm not sure how you folk will feel about the intro, so just trust me when I say that all the smut and plot and jazz flute are real close.
> 
> This fic is going to be pretty dark and there might be some triggering content.
> 
> It's tagged as rape/noncon mostly because of Ruby's sexual manipulation of Sam when he's on all kinds of substance (tell me that wasn't nonconny in canon??) and also later with his relationship with Lucifer.
> 
> There is a supernatural element to this fic, but it's still AU, so please keep in mind.
> 
> Sam is 18 and Dean is 22, for all intents and purposes and porpoises.
> 
> Alright, now buckle your seatbelts aND GET READY

_  
_The tainted one. The boy with the demon blood.

 

_You're just about every flavour of fucked up, aren't you?_

Sam Winchester stumbles in through the bathroom door, barely managing to stay upright. One bloodied hand clutches his temple in a failed attempt to stifle the war zone raging within his brain; the other hand reaches out to the sink for balance. A trail of crimson trickles down dirty porcelain.

He can hardly breathe, heart pounding so violently he can feel it beat in his mouth, his eyes. The taste of copper and bile lingers at the back of his throat and oh God how is everything so damn bright?

_You're an absolute fucking trainwreck, Sammy. You're so messed up,  you can't even live without poison in your heart._

"Shut up" Sam mutters, grinding his forehead against the back of his palms.

His jaw clenches tighter against the pain: every cell in his body feels like it's being simultaneously bathed in ice water and hellfire and

God fucking damnit, where is she?

He knows what she's doing. Disappearing without a trace for weeks, leaving him dry and needy. Toying with him in every way.

 Fuck, Sam hates her. So much.

And yet it doesn't stop him from letting her feed his desires, numb his pain.

And it doesn't stop his veins screaming out to her, begging her to come back.

_Pathetic. You let her drag you to Hell, now you deserve to burn._

He's sitting on the floor now, head tilted back. He watches the ceiling burst into flame,  just like he does every night and maybe, just maybe, he isn't okay.

He can feel wetness on his face, but whether it is tears or blood he is not sure. 

_You can never purge yourself of the_  filth.  
  


***

 The lost one. The warrior. 

 

He feels like he's falling.

"Is everything alright, Castiel?"

Cas looks up at his brother, Uriel, and nods indifferently. Face devoid of expression.

But his chest hurts and he's been thrown into an endless maze and all sense of purpose is burning away.

He's been cold for so long, he had forgotten what it's like to feel fire.

And it hurts. It hurts like Hell.

He slips outside into the cool November air, and tries not to think. Everything was so much easier before: he did as he was told and never questioned a thing because that is what loyalty is, right? 

And now?

He grips his blade tightly, praying for an answer to his doubt and confusion. 

But prayers feel hollow ever since Father disappeared. Like talking to a very vague, absent minded wall.

"Michael says it is for the greater good" he murmurs, grudgingly aware that no one is listening, and no one cares.

" Why does this feel so wrong?"

What the Hell does "wrong" mean, anyways? Like Castiel hasn't shed blood before. 

Like he doesn't know the smell of raw flesh or the ecstasy of brutalizing the enemy.

What is different now?

Would Father approve?

Castiel grimaces slightly, and stares down with shattered desperation.

"What should I do?"

The pavement does not answer.

He sighs wearily. What would the sidewalk know about family or guilt or green eyed souls anyways?

***

The Broken One. The Righteous Man. 

 

At least whiskey never leaves him.

Dean takes back another drink, relishing the burning feeling down his throat.

I mean, there must be a reason why everyone he loves abandons his sorry ass, right?

Mom, he couldn't save. 

Dad's gone too, not like that's much of a surprise. 

Still, Dean worries he won't come back. It's been a few weeks already, so he's either dead or hiding.

And Sammy...fuck.

Jesus, he must be drunk if this bullshit is resurfacing now.

Dean gets up unsteadily, pays his dues, and makes his way to the exit.

On an ordinary night, he'd stay and get sloppy (and almost definitely frisky). Have a little fun, maybe snag a few perky locals.

Fuck that. 

He's shivering against his thin button down shirt, grateful that the cold provides him with distraction from the barrage of unwanted thoughts.

The night is cool and absolutely silent.

He might be drunk, but he's still a fucking Winchester, so he manages to get a few punches in before he's slammed onto the ground, knee digging into his spine.

"Careful now" a voice hisses next to his ear, as strong fingers press into his windpipe.

"Wouldn't want you to get hurt"

***

***


	2. Bloody Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short one. They will get longer with time.  
> Sam and Meg brotp, tortured Dean, fucked up Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: torture and something I think can be interpreted as past sexual abuse, but also could not be??  
> I enjoy you, so I hope you enjoy me.  
> (kisses your foreheads for reading my rambles)

***

Meg finds him curled up on the bathroom floor, his face pale, eyes glazed with pain.

"What the fuck happened?" she gestures at the shards of glass imbedded in Sam's fingers, now sticky with drying blood.

Sam groans weakly and makes a face, allowing Meg to try and pull him to his feet. The attempt is futile (or Meg wasn't really trying that hard) and they both collapse back onto the floor.

"I think I fell" Sam murmurs, holding his palms up so Meg can have a closer look. He doesn't remember. Doesn't matter. He's coherent now, and at least the hallucinations are on low volume.

"Sure explains the mess in the kitchen. Fuck, don't you know that cleanliness is next to godliness?" Meg poises her cigarette between her lips and uses both hands to tweeze out a particularily nasty fragment from his thumb. 

She shakes her head with mock dissappointment.

"Bit dried out, aren't we, Samwise? Call me crazy, but I'd say you're jonesin' for a bitch fix"

Sam is drenched in cold sweat and panic and throbbing pain, but he still manages to flash Meg a first class bitchface.

In truth, the withdrawal period brings him back to the grand old days, all those attacks of darkness, seizures, visions that plagued him since childhood.

Good times, those.

And the road trips with daddy dearest certainly didn't help. Sam knows he's on the edge of Hell, but at least it's better than breaking down on dirty motel room floors, praying for death to release him from his suffering. 

Better than watching his brother hurt so badly to please that son of a bitch who called himself their father.

Ugh. 

Meg tosses him the bottle of whiskey that lurks behind the toilet. He pours it over his wounds, wincing slightly as the alcohol stings him clean.

"So you're an expert now?" he snaps. It's childish, but he's not truly pissy. Delirious maybe, but hell, it's not like he's worried about hurting her feelings.

"I am a certified nurse, you know." Meg sweeps her hand across her uniform, giggling at Sam's intense eye roll.

"I hate to interrupt this touching display, but I seriously need to rock a piss, so you two bumblefucks are going to have to find elsewhere to be useless"

Judging by the dishevelment of his suits (always with the suits), the tie wrapped around his rumpled hair, and the bruised glare of murder glistening from his eyes, it would appear that Brady has only just emerged from sleep.

Sam and Meg nautrally do not find elsewhere to be useless. 

"Rough night?" Meg blows a stream of smoke at Brady's unimpressed face.

"I think there's still half a bottle of tequila left in the fridge, if you're hungry for breakfast" Sam bites his tongue, supressing a smirk.

He's still in pain, but lord, Brady's suffering is like a soothing salve.

"Yeah, or dinner, seeing as it's six thirty. Yo, you might want to shower, Ty. You smell like Ulysses S Grant and dirty handjobs."

Brady honestly doesn't know why he has to deal with this shit. Fucking children

***

"..s-stop"

Dean chokes on the plea, struggling to breathe as blood fills his throat.

"Hush now, baby, I'm trying to enjoy myself" 

Alastair whistles softly as he drags the blade of his scalpel across Dean's abdomen. His hands are messy with blood, his small smile frightening under cold, faulty fluorescent lights.

Dean's wrists are bound together above his head. sharp metal chafing his skin. He can feel warm liquid trickling down his arms, his back, his stomach.

He's sick, skin still shuddering wherever Alastair's almost-gentle touch goes. The sadist has wrenched him hard, further widening the cracks.

"Beautiful" he whispers, making a neat little incision on the side of Dean's neck.

"Here you lie, paying for your daddy's ssssins. Story of your life, isn't it, Dean baby?"

It's not. Not true. 

_Just do as you're told. No, shut the fuck up, I don't want to hear it._

He deserves this, doesn't he? The slick smell of his own blood, the fear and pain rolling off his skin, the harsh sensation of his body being tormented for hours on end.

It's not dad's fault he ju-

"He knows you're here. He knows you're on your back as usual, taking it so he can be free. Do you think he cares, baby?"

Dean shuts his eyes tight, not thinking, not breathing. Why can't it end?

_You're nothing. Worthless._

"He doesn't. You're alone like you alwayssss were, not worth an effort"

_All you had to do was take care of your brother, and you failed that too. What the fuck is wrong with you?_

The scalpel slides further, deeper.

"It's just you and me, baby."

***

Everything is going according to plan.

The timing was predicted right, all the pieces are doing their part perfectly.

Michael and Uriel, Zach and Naomi and the rest are all pleased.

Greatness is coming, in such short time.

All is well.

So why is Castiel fighting to stay calm, his head shaking violently in a desperate attempt to stop the cannonade of thoughts.

_What have we done? Oh God, what are we doing? Why can't I see this for the blessing it is? Why do I feel so sick?_

But not even God knows the last time Castiel felt this sick. 

Every time Cas looks down at his hands, he can only see a stream of blood, damned spots of red and hatred.

With unsteady fingers, Castiel twists off the cap of the bottle Naomi had given him.

Her pink lipped smiles, they drip with something kind or sinister. Tender or menacing.

Maybe all.

It's small, like a pearl. The chalky, bitter taste alone washes away some of his anxiety, calms his worries.

Soon, his heart stops snapping within his chest.

Soon he is melting in petals of light, bathed in the oh-so familiar numb river he has been drowning in for a long time.

Naomi was right.

He was going to be just fine

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know what would be delicious and heartening and get my gears grinding?  
> more comments ;)  
> THANKS FOR READING, DARLINGS!


	3. False Serenity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel's "dreams", Sam's poison, Dean is given an offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rereading my work is so embarrassing because this is unbeta'd and the typos just slap me in the face with relentless anger.  
> So, sorry about that! I do go ahead and fix them sew.... (that is a joke! hah! joke!)
> 
> i said they'd be longer but this one wasn't :( but i actually am so serious, they will get longer, like the next chapter is pretty decently long so you'll get some actual neat shit. In the next chapter, Meg and Cas meet, Sam and Cas meet, and naaasty shit goes on in Dean's funtimes..

He doesn't sleep. None of them do.

But these goddamned small ,bitter pills pull him into rivers of hushed voices and smoky wings. Castiel imagines this is how dreams are, smooth and untarnished by visions of shattered green eyes and bloody hands.

He had forgotten how soothing these "rests" are, forgotten the delicate lull of Naomi's medicine. These past few weeks have been trying, as his heart is plagued with guilt and doubt and something not quite spoken..

Still,

A few hours pass, and  Castiel's eyes snap open in pain, the soothing whispers replaced by guilty hissing.

He can feel the name on his lips, that tortured soul whose pain is apparently essential. The cause of all these sticky questions.

The Righteous Man.

_Dean Winchester_

_  
_***

Love is the wrong word. 

And yet, there is still ~~everything~~ something in the way she sets his veins on fire and cuts through the growing shadows in his heart.

Ah, fuck.

Hatred? Yes.

Samhas always been unclean, always so different. And she brings it all out, takes him by the hand and shows him the worst parts of his already tainted self.

He is her bloody sinner, her broken toy. She crawls through Sam's skin, always there to remind him that 

He is the monster.

God, the things he's done for her...all that tattered flesh..all the pain..fire..

Never has anyone made him feel so alive...never has a bullet been so welcome in his brain.

No. 

Love is definitely the wrong word.

But the taste of it still burns in his mouth.

***

"That's some really fine worksmanship you've got going there, Al. But, Hell, you've been at it for hours, are you sure you don't want someone else to-?"

"I don't need Crowley's erection ruining this work of art. The boy is an absoulte dream, and besides, I've grown to like the taste of his ssscreams. He's just so... mouthwatering. No, I'd like to see what it takes to get that pearl to carve a heart out."

***

It's late afternoon the next day when Sam finally makes his way downstairs.

Brady is lounging on the floor with an icepack on his forehead. Andy is lost in bowl of cereal. He may never find his way out.

Meg is fully dressed, sitting on the kitchen counter with a bourbon in one hand and her knife twirling in the other.

"The bitch is back, I take it?"

Meg was out last night (Azazel seems to love assigning her the messiest jobs. Took her three hours to get the bloodstains out of her damn pants)

But she can tell. 

The biggest clue is the fact that Sam doesn't look like a corpse that's been dragged through ten miles of shit. Aww, he's even rocking the dimples again bless him.

Eyes bright, pupils ready to pull the universe in their vast abyss. Arms...holy. holey. like a damned pincushion.

Little bruises littering his neck, and of course the smell of sex and power slipping off him.

"Ruby came over? Fuck, stay away from the fucking cutlery Winchester, or I swear to God.."

Brady knows only too well what happens when you set a full-tank Sam Winchester near sterling silver.

"Fucking piece of shit uber psychic freak.."

A single tear rolls down Andy's face. He can't find home; it's all just cereal.

***

Dean's throat is raw, each scream scraping his inner flesh, each cry of pain tearing his voice to pieces.

His lips are covered in blood. He's cold and hot and he doesn't remember what it feels like to breathe.

_You deserve to die._

Alastair caresses the side of cheek with a blade, still murmuring softly into Dean's ear.

"Oh baby, don't you know you can take all the pain away?"

_No. No, you're already dead._

_  
_***

***

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVE AND COMMENTS AND READING! YOU FEED ME WITH YOUR PERFECTION  
> ps in the house live: Brady, Andy (gallagher), Meg, Sam and sometimes Ruby and sometimes other people.


	4. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Offer aside, Alastair develops a new method of torturing Dean. Some backstory (but more to come), some Castiel's household, and the shadow of a new character is introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FORGIVE ME, MY DARLINGS. I said this would be the chapter where Cas meets Meg, and subsequently Sam, and I wrote a rather long one, but unfortunately those parts of the long chapter still need work, so I am afraid that will have to wait until next time...don't hate me? I love you

Time goes by differently here. God knows how long he's been here..days, weeks? Months?

Well, maybe God knows, but he sure as Hell doesn't care.

The pain is strange, like chalk marks of grime and blood tearing through the flesh of his mind. He doesn't know... oh God...please...

_You know what you are. You're a useless little whore, can't do a goddamn thing right. You make me sick._

He is being torn apart in ways he never could have imagined. His body being shredded and dissected, his will, his pride, the little scraps of self worth he somehow managed to retain through all those years of not being good enough: all beaten down, broken.

"You know I love it when you squirm, baby, but I need you to hold still..."

Oh fuck. The sound of rust, the smell of death..

"Yesss, that's a good boy.."

Hell, he thought he was damaged goods before...

***

The day is grey and chill.

Over the course of two weeks, the household's increase of burning candles, scattered occultist paraphernalia, and potato based foods suggest that Ruby is settled in for one of her longer stays.

This also means the furniture gets to experience even greater suffering than usual. As if Brady's constant stream of feisty "bitches" and Meg's horrendously violent revelries don't already do enough damage..

"How the HELL did you two manage to break the goddamn wall??" Brady snaps, half tetchily and half in awe as he rummages through the fridge in vain hope of finding something cold with a fifty percent or higher alcoholic content. All he finds is a raspberry cooler and half a salami. Ugh.

"I mean, I know you kids like it rough, but Jesus Fuck...those interior decorating expenses weren't cheap, do you want try going a little more vanilla for the sake of the decor?"

Sam doesn't dignify this with a response, although he does purse his lips a little. Low volume bitchface.

He slips out from his seat between Ruby and Andy, twisting his neck with his hands until it ripples with a satisfying crack.

"I still don't understand," Andy addresses Ruby as he thoughtfully swirls his milkshake,

"How you can eat fries if you can't eat salt?"

This is greeted with the house-standard eye roll (Andy has begun to fear for the ocular muscles of his housemates. Their sass is basically corrosive, he's not sure that's healthy)

"It's called witchcraft, short bus"

Azazel actually drops in later, practically  glowing with the light of a disturbingly good mood.

"Heya kids, just thought I'd stop by, make sure you remember you've got to work if you wanna play"

Classic Azazel.

Sam feels his stomach clench uneasily, as it always does when he looks into those bright yellow eyes.

The same eyes that haunted him during childhood, both in waking and in sleep.

[Azazel was with him from the start. Always lurking in the background, like a dark guardian angel. Protecting him from...or rather, drawing him to evil.

All those institutions, all those hospitals. The cool white buildings that Sam was dragged to when his episodes got too heavy, when his mind unraveled until he could no longer hold his life by the threads. The whole thing was a hazy terror to him, those places filled him with a deep sense of impurity. Now, he knows why.

Even as a child he knew it wasn't John that paid for the visits. No way could he afford it, especially not when there was ammo or booze needed purchasing. Besides, John was (reasonably) uncomfortable with the whole mysterious benefactor deal. So every time Sam showed signs of being able to tie his own shoes, John would break him out.

His whole life, Sam dreamed of running away into normalcy. Of shedding the gritty, violent life his father forced him into. Even so, he would still fight back silent tears of relief each time his family came back for him. There was always Dean was there to bring his little brother into his arms and save him from the black eyed nurses and the pinching tubes flooding thick, red fluid into his veins.

And for a moment, gently resting his head on Dean's shoulder, he would feel safe. No nightmare was strong enough to tear him away, no vision could make him leave this absolute perfect second of peace.

  No matter how bad things got, no matter how cruel John became or how wretched their broken family became, they never left him behind. So he never left them.

Not until...well. Not until that day.]

***

Castiel makes his way through the dimly lit halls of the Manor, his face set as stony as the marble floors beneath his feet.

He has not yet come across any of his family and fellow soldiers, which is not uncommon in his home.

 The Manor is a large and intricate house, full of many rooms with closed doors. Everything is white, which usually brings a sense of peace and identity in Castiel. Lately, the colourless walls have been flaring up something like anxiety within his spirit, making him feel....ill.

Even after slipping the calming little antidotes to his worries, he knows he is not well.

But he has been doing much better. The green eyes do not glow so fiercely, the blood on his hands is not always prominent. He can speak to his brothers and sisters without fearing an attack of ...emotion.

He has been able to speak tactics of the plan with Uriel and Hesthe with only subdued pangs of that abominable guilt.

And most thankfully, he has not lost his edge in combat. A few spars with Balthazar and Samandriel have instilled in Castiel the sense of the warrior he feared he had lost.

Castiel steps out in what he supposes might be considered a cold evening.

***

With Andy nowhere to be found (he has, in fact, buried himself under a heap of Peruvian ponchos on the third floor, equipped with at least fifteen pizza bagels, a bag of something special, and a slender bong, the top of which he sticks out of his poncho pile like a scuba breathing tube.), Sam and Brady set off together on a hunt instead. Ruby disappears to do devious Ruby things,  and Meg, bored, takes back a few drinks before slipping into the darkening outside.

***

_They are so young, children distorted into soldiers, trenched in fear._

_They sit against the dirty wall of a motel room, alone._

_Dean clutches little Sammy  desperately, arms wrapped around his little brother as tightly as he can manage with a damaged wrist. The skin of his tiny arm all swollen and blackened, but he fights the hurt._

_He'll never be good enough, but he has to try._

_With the back of his good hand, Dean wipes away the silent tears falling freely down his cheeks._

_"It's going to be okay, Sammy" he whispers, hugging the younger boy closer._

_Sam is still shuddering from his special sickness, the one from the monsters that live inside his head. Dean wishes he could fight them like Dad fights the other ghosts and evil things. Wishes he could take the pain away._

_"I'm going to protect you"_

_Sam stops trembling, and turns to Dean with dead eyes. They flick to all black, full of hatred._

_"No, you won't. Because you can't. Because I'm dead"_

Dean cannot stop screaming. Even after his voice shreds his throat so raw a single sound cannot come out.

They've cut into his mind. The real torture begins now.

***.

Just some casual intimidation, an exorcism here, a defensive killing there. Attacking the enemy, getting justice. Kind of.

Ruby insists that he is doing the right thing, that in the end his work will help...help...

And he's not hurting people, he's just trying to...hel...

Jesus, Sam is finding it hard to reason with himself, even when he's brimming with poison and on the very edge of his bloodlust. He can see his heart is a mess of decay, the sweetness of his old self faltering under the presence of the new, broken version.

Of course he craves slaughter, his entire life was orchestrated for him to become just so: One father, the obsessive tyrant, trained and conditioned him from childhood to become a hardened killer. And the other father, the shadow, the nightmare, filled him up with demonic toxin, scraped away his humanity and compromised his sanity for years.

Sam no longer knows what he is, or why he's here. But he knows he is allowing himself to be dragged into obscurity, baring his desolate soul to the spiraling flames of perdition to which he has always belonged.

He and Brady walk side by side through the slowly descending velvet of nightfall, hunters on the scent.

***

He leans against the wall, pale blue eyes glittering with quiet thoughts.

He tests the name against his tongue, rolls the flavour of desire against his mouth.

"Sam Winchester"

A taste like fire and agony and bleeding dreams.

He smiles, obsession dripping from his lips.

The almost-light glowing off his skin casts shadows like wings, three sets spread from his back.

***

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I hope you liked this? I tried making it extra long for you, sorry if it's not up to par! More action later on, and smut very soon. Thank you all so much for taking the time to read this story, I really hope you enjoy it (: Have a great day!


	5. Broken Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and torture, Meg meets Cas meets a strange junkie. Two delicious new characters are introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's quite a longer-than-usual one, finally! I've read it over only a couple of times so if it's full of mistakes or bad writing, you are all welcome to smack me with bananas and other such fruit.
> 
> WARNING: this chapter is as gruesome and grim as the others, and there's a sequence that can easily be interpreted as past sexual abuse. I made it as vague as I could, because I'm not sure how uncomfortable you all would be if I put in longer episodes of that kind of thing in this piece. Lucifer x Sam is going to get pretty dark sexually as well, so if you're not down with all that, I'll understand.

"We're on the edge of war. All Hell is breaking loose in five days time. Are you fucking ready?"

***

"What the hell are you doing here?" Castiel snarls, his blade primed and ready to kill.

The ~~girl~~ hellspawn raises her eyebrows, running her fingers through dark, messy hair in an offhand manner. Her eyes flick to the weapon directed at her.

"What, can't a girl take a leisurely night time stroll ?"

Her voice drips with casual sarcasm, but she still tries to distance herself from the blade.

Castiel's frown deepens. He doesn't know her personally, but he's seen her in action with the rest of the abominations, enemies of his family's cause. Evil. He steps closer, more aggressively, backing her up against the brick wall of the nearby church. The night is quiet, and they are unaccompanied by anyone.

"Damn, boy," her tone is low, teasing. Castiel narrows his eyes, aware of her body against his as he presses the blade to her throat.

"You're all about the power plays, huh? Never thought a halo like you to get me so hot and bothered"

The metal cuts into her throat just enough for a trickle of blood to slide down her neck. He is done with playing games.

The seduction in her voice immediately drops a few levels, replaced with a silky panic.

" Violent? I like. But listen, Clarence, you want to go easy with the pointy end there? I mean, we might be aiming for a different endgame, but right now we're pretty much playing on the same team"

This is more or less the most preposterous thing Castiel has ever heard, and he opens his mouth to spit this out, but

"We want the War, same as you do."

After a pause, Castiel removes the weapon from her throat, but continues pinning her against the wall. He glares at her sternly and searches her eyes, now fully beetle black.

She's small, dark haired. Her soul is corrupt, a wicked spirit.

But there is something...

...Whatever.

"If I see you try anything-" he warns slowly, before releasing his hold and stepping away from her.

Lord, is he going to regret this.

A corner of her mouth turns up.

"What, that's it? You get me going and now you're not even going to finish me off? You're breaking my heart, Clarence. "

Castiel rolls his eyes and begins to walk away. He slips his hand into his inner coat pocket, the tension in his neck relaxing as he wraps his fingers around the familiar bottle. Castiel twists the cap open, jaw clenched against the onslaught of unwelcome thoughts raging within his mind (an alarming amount of which would be classified as _impure_ ) _._ Lord, what is happening to him?

Two precious beads of calm slip into his hand, and he is just about to silence these new worries, when

Sudden movement and a rough voice hisses

"Don't worry sweetheart. We'll finish you off, scout's honour."

***

_Hold still, you fucking slut. This is for your own good._

Alistair tightens the bonds against Dean's wrists and ankles.

_Shut the fuck up. Stop crying, you useless piece of shit._

"Shhhhhh" Alistair hushes Dean, cold fingertips press against his lips.

_I told you to shut the fuck up. Shut your whore mouth, you can't even do a simple task without fucking it up._

"It's okay, baby. It'll be just fine"

_Get back on the ground. We're not finished here._

Alistair picks up a bowl, and slowly drips liquid lead along Dean's stomach, all the while breathing in the smell of roasting flesh.

_It's supposed to hurt. I wouldn't have it any other way._

***

"Keeping busy, are we, dearest?"

Lilith looks up with a wide grin, eyes flicking to pure white. She wipes the smear of blood from her mouth and skips towards her visitor, her entire body quivering with glee.

"Just finishing up with snack time. Ooh, I'm so happy to see you!"

She throws her hands to her cheeks, positively beaming. A throttled groan is heard from behind her, the source being a mostly-dead man lying in a pile of his own entrails, the soup of his various fluids creating a puddle on the carpet.

Her visitor smiles softly, almost affectionately as he watches Lilith bounce back to her meal, silencing the offending sounds of pain with a brutal stamp of foot on neck. The bottom of her pretty white dress spatters with red, but she seems unconcerned.

"You're not hungry, are you?"

He just ate, as a matter of fact. Down to business.

"Any news of my boy wonder?" he inquires as they sit on the living room sofa of the dead man. The room is lit brightly, the decor all clean beige and happy yellow, but the reek of fresh carnage lingers in the air.

"Yes, he's all broken and bloodthirsty, just the way you like them!" Lilith claps her little hands together, pleased with the success of her subordinates.

"Ruby's sad that playtime is almost over, naughty girl. She's so silly about him, I think I'll need to teach her a lesson,"

Here, Lilith's pearly eyes seem to sparkle with some malicious delight.

 "And you'll have your toy all to yourself. So very soon"

***

The whole thing feels so unclean, and at the same time so....erotic.

Even before, when it was innocent "saving people, hunting things", Sam (although he hated to acknowledge it) got off on the sweet rush of adrenaline, the satisfaction of a well executed kill, the small happiness owed to the protection of another life.

And now his mind is drenched in darkness and his bloodstream is flooded with a sinister power, and he can no longer suppress the sick pleasure that hums throughout his body. The maniacal screams of his prey is like music to his ears, the melody of torment filling his hollow heart with gratification as he twists the rotted soul and drags it back into hellfire.

The deed is good, see, he killed a demon.

You live with demons, Sam. You're fucking one, for Christ's sake.

Yes, but see, he saved the life of the woman who was being used as a puppet by that demonic bitch.

 Nothing wrong with that.

He's shaking with excitement and nausea, his heart beating violently within his chest.

Brady winks at Sam, removing a blade from the chest of his own victim. The body falls to the pavement with a thump. He takes a moment to fix his tie.

"Enjoying yourself a little too much, Winchester?"

Sam grimaces back at him, willing away the stiffness that has formed between his legs.

Nothing wrong at all.

***

"Holy shit" Meg chokes out, hand pressed against her chest as she wildly tries to comprehend what the FUCK just happened?

She and...Clarence, the good angel boy, are sitting side by side on the pavement of the church parking lot, wide eyed with shock, their backs against the building wall. His hair is all mussed up and there's a cut on his cheekbone he hasn't bothered yet to heal. His blade sits loosely in his open palm.

Meg's leather jacket is torn, the blood of her fresh wound staining the black material. She's breathing heavily from exertion. Her right foot (which appears to be sprained, but right now she can't be bothered to check) rests against a dead body.

They are surrounded by six other cadavers, all collapsed in graceless positions. Four of the corpses stare out into Death with burnt out eye sockets, still smoking, their life and sight reduced to black, grimy ash.

The rest are decorated with torn flesh, blood feeding the concrete ground.

[They were the type of demons that Sam and Brady were now hunting down, the opposition. The bastards don't realize that their pathetic scramble from power is only deterring their chances in the oncoming war.

Meg's a good fighter, and with Sam at hand, they could've taken out the whole lot without lifting a finger, but she had been unprepared to take on seven fully equipped opponents.

Then he stepped in.]

"Fuck, Clarence," Meg manages, after the shock of the silence wanes off into near-awkwardness

"You sure know how to impress a lady".

"Clarence" only responds with a frown, and another tense few moments pass by. Meg side-eyes him a little, searching those baby blues for a reaction. He has, after all, just saved her from a demonic gang attack. For no reason, whatsoever.

Something almost like gratitude stirs within her ashy heart. And something else stirs in her not so ashy loins. What. What?

"So...is smiting my enemies your way of dirty talking? 'Cause let me tell you, that was..all manner of hot"

Clarence flashes her a scowl.

"No, I was simply..." but he trails off, leaving his justification for the rescue unfinished. His eyes snap up with panic, fingers desperately searching along the confines of his pockets.

His expression suddenly falls from confused-and-unamused to an extreme distress.

"Fuck" he mutters, and the word sounds strange coming off his chapped lips. Like watching a nun take back a fifth of whiskey, or a dove smoke a cigarette....

Meg sighs. Her similes are just not cutting it today. She follows Clarence's agitated gaze to see a scattering of white little capsules along the ground, some half saturated in the surrounding pools of blood.

 _Well, I'll be damned..again_. _My boy's a pill popper, who'd a thought?_

Curioser and curioser.

"Medication situation?"

Clarence's jaw twitches, and he shakes his head. "It is not of import. And really, none of your business"

But as Meg limps up to inspect one of the fallen pills, she can see they aren't the weak, liver-trashing human variety of fun times pharmaceuticals. She flicks off some dirt that has collected on the white surface, and breaks open the capsule.

Yep. Definitely supernatural prescription. Familiar. Very familiar.

"Look, if you need your fix, I know where I can get you some happy candy"

Clarence squints up at her, expression wary and suspicious.

"Consider a thank-you gift for keeping me away from decades of torture"

She knows he has no reason to trust her. Hell, she has no reason to trust him.

But something unspoken passes between them, and though neither one trusts the other, a fragile truce is woven. Clarence wraps his hand around hers and lets her help him stand up.

He's tall. Tall and ruffled, his expression lost and morose under pale orange lamplight.

The way his trench coat hangs limply on him, the sides fluttering slightly with the gentle evening breeze.

Like broken wings.

***

_Dean is sixteen. Dad's just left with bleak eyes and bruised knuckles, off to continue a week-long bender._

_He's a mean drunk is all._

_Twelve years ago today, Mom burned to ash on the ceiling._

_It's not his fault._

_He's gone now anyways, as usual. Turns out even he can't deliver two blows to his youngest without the sting of regret softening him, pushing him out the door and back into whatever bar will take him._

_Dean makes his way to his bed, limping slightly. His throat aches as he looks over at Sam, who is leaning against the back of his own bed. He stares right back at Dean with a hard expression, a blackened swelling already forming under his cold, wet eyes._

_Dean can feel the lead in his heart pull it down, down. His skin protests every movement, as the damage is fresh and the contusions are heavy._

_He lies down, desperately trying to conjure up something positive, something to dilute the grimness of reality._

_He can feel the sharpness of Sam's glare, the silent screams directed at Dean._

_Why don't you stand up for yourself?_

_You always just do what you're told, and all he does is bring you down. Why? Why do you let him?_

_Because he has to. He has to do what he's told._

_He is nothing._

_"I'm so sorry, Sammy"_

_"No" Sam whispers, face contorted with impish malevolence. His skin is pale and suddenly raw. Sam tears his fingernails into his stomach, tearing himself apart._

_The room is filled with angry black smoke, furling around Sam as he screams with unearthly laughter, eyes dripping with blood and loathing._

_"But you will be"_

They keep coming, these polluted memories, truth tainted with lies. Relentless.

They never fucking end.

***

Lucifer taps his wine glass, chilling the liquid with a light touch of his fingers.

He breathes out a contented sigh, grace ebbing about him in a state of barely contained anticipation.

Everything is going..swimmingly. Lilith, the darling brute, always knows how to get a job done well. And Azazel is rallying up forces, brutalizing the opposition. Bless their filthy souls, they'll have their rewards.

War is imminent. Massacre, annihilation, chaos.

Sam.

Soon.

***

Brady's being such a goddamned nuisance in this interrogation, such an absolute fucking wiseass, that Sam loses it for a moment and briefly dips Brady's soul down so it burns from the lick of Hell flames. Just a little, to shut him up.

In retaliation, Brady snaps his fingers and reopens the glass-wounds on Sam's fingers, re-shredding the skin.

Jesus.....fuck. Ugh. Next job he's going with Andy. The mind bender might be eccentric, but at least he isn't a fucking immature twat.

Sam wipes his bloodied hands on Brady's suit jacket, then turns back to the demon in question, who is watching the shenanigans with pained amusement. She squirms fruitlessly against her restraints.

She knows she's dead.

Last job of the night.

They're both drained from the night's activities. On the way home, Brady picks up a few bottles of Jack (Sam knocks the liquor store patrons out before Brady can slaughter the lot. His crimson stained clothes make him look like a regular Patrick Bateman, which would raise awkward questions. Sam has long since learned what happens when people think it wise to hinder his demonic housemates on their quest for booze).

They reach the house, and Sam enjoys a quiet reunion with his needle and syringe before he slips into the living room to read.

***

"Wait here, Clarence. I'll only be a second." Meg (for that is the name his absurd new acquaintance had offered. She seems unwilling, or unable, to refer to Castiel by anything but the random name with which she had christened him earlier) sits him down on a leather armchair in her rather large living room.

Her house is surprisingly large, and well furnished. Not nearly so enigmatic and large as The Manor, but it is no humble abode either. The artwork mainly consists of baroque depictions of death and slaughter, and there is a good deal of period furniture that blends in nicely with the more modern furnishings.

Castiel blinks. Are you an interior decorator now? Jesus Christ, Castiel, your presence in this den of iniquity is a grievous sin in and of itself.

"Make friends with Freakshow" Meg instructs, then disappears before Castiel can react.

He can hear her scream, "GALLAGHER. I NEED DRUGS" somewhere in another recess of the house.

He isn't sure where Naomi is (her thoughts, like his, are shut off), nor does he know whether she would be willing to refill him so soon. The bottle was full before he dropped it, and his brothers are still concerned about his behavior.

They might be a little more concerned if they ever find out he spared the life of a demonness, and is now guest in her home. Granted, he killed four others, and besides, she's not so-

Castiel realizes he is not alone.

There's a tall young man with bandaged fingers lounging on the couch opposite. He seems to be shrouded by an air of eerie calm. He's looking up from the novel on his lap to cast a questioning glance at Castiel's presence. Castiel nods awkwardly in greeting, and receives a slow, friendly smile in return.

He's wearing a loose flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal a heavy set of track marks decorating his inner arms. His eyes are glossy and carrying pupils "the size of Mike's ego" (as Gabriel used to say before his disappearance).

Castiel is no expert, but he is fairly certain the "Freakshow" is a junkie. This wouldn't come off as a huge surprise, considering Meg seems to be living in some fancy, ethereal drug den.

A silence falls. Castiel spends a few minutes staring at the stitchwork on his overcoat.

Bored, he looks up at the man, who is now engrossed in his book. Castiel squints to see what he is reading.

The book is _Faust._

"You read...Goethe?" Castiel blurts out, instantly regretting the unmasked incredulity in his voice.

The stranger raises his eyebrows with mild surprise. His eyes narrow with amusement, and for a moment the sheen of drug-induced gloss is replaced by a teasing glint. The ghost of a smile plays upon his lips.

"Yeah, I do...read, actually."

Castiel reddens, if that is at all possible.

Before he has a chance to mutter out an apology, someone else enters the room.

At first he assumes it's Meg come back for him.

But as she makes her way to the strange, well- read junkie on the couch, Castiel sees this small brunette is quite different. Her soul is warped, like Meg's, and her dark eyes contain a similar malicious glitter.

But there is something infinitely more sinister behind her sweet smile. Wolfish.

She brushes her fingertips against the man's neck,  lowering her head so she can whisper something indiscernible into his ear before Castiel has a chance to perk up his hearing. He notes a sudden change in the man's countenance: the calm shroud falls to reveal a small flame of passionate energy. He looks into the woman's eyes with a mixture of pure loathing and a tender, almost hungry desire. Castiel shifts with discomfort, and watches with concerned curiosity as the man lets the strange woman tug at his injured fingers and lead him away.

And then Castiel feels it, just as the man brushes past him to go through the door. His senses flare up, alerting him of some ominous energy he had somehow missed. His entire body is now flooded with alarm. What...?

The man turns to flash a crooked farewell smile at Castiel before he steps out of the room.

Castiel's entire body is tense, his mind spinning.

What the Hell was that?

His thoughts are interrupted by Meg, who has returned with boons of tranquility.

The pills are the same as his, only larger. She does not explain how "Gallagher" attained them, nor does Castiel ask.

He lingers at the doorway, and stares at her with awkward intensity.

They are now even. Castiel has gone against a life's worth of training to spare her life, and Meg has allowed a possible enemy within the confines of her home to supply him with drugs. The terms of their truce are now obsolete.

"See you around, Clarence"

Castiel merely winks (he is not sure what possesses him to do so, but he feels it is the only appropriate adieu to his satanic friend), then retreats outside once again.

But who the hell is Clarence?

***

Four thirty. Sam finds Meg in the backyard, cross-legged in the frost-painted grass. She's tossing bloody bones into the air, playing with the dogs.

Sam sits down beside her, freeing her hands of the (probably human) remains  so she can fit an unlit menthol between her lips. He reaches out cautiously and finds the crook behind one of the hound's ears. Sam may not be able to see them, but he is the only one besides Meg to be able to keep them under control.

He watches Meg struggle with a faulty lighter for a few minutes before taking pity and tossing over his own. A hound playfully nuzzles him in the back.

They're almost cute sometimes... besides the fact they're invisible..and that they crush souls between their jaws to drag them to Hell for eternal torment.

Yeah, Sam definitely took a wrong turn somewhere. He shudders against the stark reality forcing him to see how far he's fallen.

Sam tilts his head to side-eye Meg, recalling the reason for his visit.

"So who's the unicorn?" he asks. The origins of a shit-eating grin are playing upon his lips as he watches her take a drag from her cigarette.

Meg falters only for a fraction of a second, but it's more than enough. Even if Sam wasn't in hunter mode, now able to hear the skip of her heartbeat over a mile away, he'd still catch it.

"Isn't he a little.. _holy_ for your usual taste?"

"No idea what you're talking about, Sinchester" Meg retorts with poorly feigned indifference, refusing to meet his eye. "Drugs been addling up that weird little head of yours?"

Mhhhmmm. They sit in comfortable silence together, breathing in minty smoke, listening to the hounds growl against the night. Christ, it almost feels like real friendship. It's not, but in quiet moments like these, the thought seems almost plausible. They've got a  sarcastic alliance, at least.

After a pause, Sam starts humming Elton John's "Blue Eyes" until Meg catches on and punches him in the gut until he's coughing up blood.

She smirks right back, though.

 Damn straight,  a unicorn.

***

She can't be much older than fourteen. She's chained, her unbearably thin wrists held together by metal cuffs. Her exposed skin is shivering violently against the harsh cold of the room.

Dean feels a wave of nausea wash over him, an almost crippling sensation.

"Sssso much for family. Daddy's not coming, Dean" Alastair purrs as he tenderly brushes away the tears streaming down Dean's face. He scrapes his nails against a fresh wound on Dean's shoulder, painting his fingers red.

God, the pain is relentless..

"And Sssammy, well he's as good as dead, rotting in that demon hole"

...but the whispers are so much worse. Fuck.

The girl's lips are trembling, barely holding back panicked sobs.

Dean would vomit if he could. For days, he's had nothing to eat but stale water and his own blood.

"Why don't you show us what you're really capable of, baby."

A frightening grin is twisted on Alastair's pale face as he presses the handle of a knife into Dean's shaking hands.

"Carve us up something pretty."

Dean can almost smell her fear. The sound of her frantic heartbeat...

Or is that his own?

He looks down at the blade, his mind blurred. Agony, horror, anger... no. Emotions aren't the same, not in here. All he feels is darkness.

All he knows is pain.

"That's a good boy"

Oh God.

His fingers grip the handle.

***

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless your pretty souls :)


	6. The End of the Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief Sam x Ruby dubious consent sex thing. (Actually, Ruby coming on to Sam while he's high as balls is rape but Sam gets pretty into it so I don't think that will be triggering. The dubcon goes both ways )Not sure how into SamxRuby you guys are so I didn't make it too long.  
> So this is the end of the beginning. Like, PART 1. or whathaveyou!  
> After this, you are going to get all the Samifer, Destiel, Megstiel, Meanstiel???, etc. you were waiting for. If that is what you were waiting for.

Soon. The war is so close, you can practically taste the carnage.

All the garrison leaders, the top warriors, the highest of the high in the Manor's inner workings are situated in the conference room.

Castiel is struggling to pay attention to Michael's  ~~tiresome~~   ~~indignant~~   ~~sanctimonious~~  important pre- Mission lecture. 

"-ghteous Man is ready to be sav-" 

Dean Winchester. Their very own human weapon, soon to be a noble soldier of their cause. 

Castiel has never had discourse with the man, never but a distant glance has been cast at Michael's sword. But it isDean Winchester's agonized face that so twists Castiel's resolve, that chokes him with guilt unlike any Castiel has every felt before. And finally, _finally_ Castiel will be unchained from his alarming collapse in character that has his family so uneasy.

For soon those haunting green eyes will be set back into freedom.

Saved from suffering. Raised from perdition.

_Suffering we allowed to happen for our own benefit. We'll free him from torture only to cast him into battle. A warrior bathed in the destruction of his own world._

_  
_Again with those damn thoughts. Castiel almost unconciously reaches his fingers to the inside of his coat pocket, to soothe the abrasive mind banter, before recalling that he has buried them in some side room in the Manor.

It seems unwise to be drifting in a dream-like (or what Castiel imagines dreaming to be like) state of comfort so close to battle. So, for now, they are stashed away. Waiting for more dire times.

"-nd those demonic s-"

Demons. Ahh!

Castiel has had several days to stew about that  _Meg_ , her sweet little demonic face, her strange kindness, the absolute insanity of that whole evening.

The problem is, he knows they are to become active enemies soon enough. He knows that even a friendship between them would be beyond appalling, let alone...

He knows that she is a product of evil, a spawn of sin. And somewhere deep, behind the intelligent gears of the obedient soldier's mind, under a thick layer of righteousness, he knows that

he likes it. 

"-er, and we are ready. But my brother is stirring up his own powers, and you all know of his most dangerous weapon?"

Here, Castiel sits up. Mind alert.

"The abomination, Sam Winchester. Lucifer's latest toy, some psychic whore he's taken it upon himself to sculpt into a force of mass destruction. Be aware, soldiers, and take care to try and eliminate the threat before it is too late. "

A barely-human power, living with demon filth. 

Castiel stares, wide eyed, heart still. He cannot think of a single reason why his heart has stopped so..

Something about that junkie...

***

Something about that darkened young soul, the product of pain. The gentle nature oh-so corrupted by the misfortune of circumstance. The strange-coloured eyes brimming with anger and pain and self-hatred.

And that body... lord. Tall, muscular, and young. Eighteen, isn't he? Good.

Graceful cheekbones, skin covered in needle pricks and twisted old scars. Pink, unsmiling lips.

A gorgeous neck, just begging to be bruised.

Tonight's the night. Lucifer bites his tongue so hard he draws blood. 

***

Lately, even go-juice isn't cutting it; the rush may keep Sam's quasi-demonic hunger satiated, but it sure as Hell doesn't do much for the cesspool of angst reeking in his mind.

It feels good to feel bad. All that guilt and distress and anger, gnawing away at him as a constant reminder of all the way he's fucked up. Sam knows they are what keeps him (more or less) human.

Huh. Maybe he should thank John for the crippling emotional masochism he developed through his happy, wholesome childhood: evidently it's the only thing keeping him from tumbling completely over the edge, into the darkside.

Or not. Constant exposure to drugs, demonic sex, and violence seems to be overriding his once well-iintentioned heart.

Sam knows he's slipping. Or maybe he's rising, higher, into the arms of something unseen.

***

The temperature could be classified as Canadian, were that a viable measurement for cold. Meg's meatsuit is shivering under the shower of icy water, her lips blue, her nipples rock solid, her flesh crawling with goosebumps.

And yet, she still can't seem to cool off. 

She blames it on Clarence. It is his fault, after all.

Those stupid, (literally) angelic blue eyes, the frown, the confidence in his fight.

He's taken over her thoughts, and these thoughts are so  _clean ?_

 

She tilts her head back, letting the cold roll off her face.  

A messenger of the Lord, now would that constitute as reeeally wrong, or way too right?

Meg drops her fingers between her legs.

Pffft. More like sex bomb of the lord.

***

Push ups. One hundred, two hundred. Work on the core, the back, the arms.

Physical exercise over, move onto the mind. Translate Kafka's  _Metamorphosis_ into Old Enochian. Master multivariable calculus. 

Psychically bend spoons (much to Brady's chagrin). Narrowly avoids getting stabbed in the jugular by Brady and his overprotection of the silverware.

And Sam is still bored. Still antsy. Still itching for something to kill.

What he really needs right now is to drown in an ocean of substances.

_Doing that a lot these days, aren't we, Sammy?  Bitch blood isn't enough for you?_

_  
_It's not. It numbs nothing.

First, Sam tries taking the John Winchester remedy for pent up aggression. Unfortunately, Sam can barely get through four drinks before giving up: alcohol has a certain way of summoning his father without allowing Sam the benefit of drunkeness. There is something (sentimental?) in the taste of whiskey, that rouses memories of disgusting verbal attacks and Dean's bloodied face. No thanks.

Next stop, Prince Gallagher. 

It takes Sam half an hour to unearth the little drug-dealing ball of joy. He finds Andy in the second floor hallway, with his face in a bong the size of Sam's leg, wearing three layers of plaid ( a boy after Sam's own heart)

The psychic smiles widely at Sam's arrival, and asks him to wait just a moment before somersaulting off into the room adjacent.

Andy may not be able to Charles Xavier his way into Sam's brain, but he still knows exactly what his fellow psychic is wanting.

In half an hour, Sam is floating.

His veins are still buzzing with his usual poison, but his mind is stretched out and falling and flying.

Sam lays on a bed for what could be an hour, or several white petal decades. Nothing hurts.

Then she comes.

Her fingers crawl under his soft, cotton shirt and scrape against the muscles of his abdomen. The pain feels smooth and Sam looks up at her, startled and dizzy. He sits up slightly, for a moment lost.

He lays back again as she presses her teeth against his lips, his neck, his collarbone. She's on top of him, his wicked succubus, writhing against his half-hard cock and there is a look he has not seen before, glinting from her black button eyes.

Sam doesn't care. It doesn't matter.

Ruby rips her shirt off and falls back on top of Sam, her breasts dangerously close to his face. 

Sam doesn't move, not until Ruby reaches down and gives him a viscious tug at the crotch. 

She takes advantage of him, so he takes advantage of her. 

Sam sits up with a malicious smirk, holding her face between his hands. He kisses her hard, tangling his fingers in her dark hair, pulling. He slides his tongue down, off her lips, along her neck, leaving a trail of rough nips against her skin until he reaches her breast. His lips brush against her nipple, softly at first. Then with a bite. Ruby hisses: He can tell she's about to get nasty, and that won't do. He slams her back onto the bed and pushes her legs apart with his own. With one hand, he pins both her wrists above her head. With the other, he leaves a trail of crimson fingernail markings on the side of her and she's laughing and screaming and Sam is so fucking high.

He releases his hold and they tear apart the room.

***

Afterwards, softer than a blink, Sam could swear she says goodbye.

***

 "It's time"

***

A light. Brilliant, cutting through the black and the blood and the endless pain.

Sounds he does not know from where, and he cannot see, everything is so bright and

there are arms around him, warm, holding him tightly.

The most beautiful voice Dean has ever heard,

like gravel. like grace.

"Dean Winchester is saved"

***

Sam should have known.

No, he did know. He'd known all along.

Just like his mother whored him out to a yellow-eyed son of a bitch, to have his blood painted with poison, his humanity stripped away, his body built as some fucking demonic war machine. His mind butchered with visions and hatred and incompetence. And now this..

These people were never his family, they were barely his friends, but he cannot help feel a small sting of betrayal. He fought their war, helped what he had thought a mutual cause. Kill demons in exchange for the promise of...redemption? or his own destruction. 

And now they've fucked him over. Or rather, he's fucked himself over.

Sam hadn't realized until now just how much worse his life could get.

_It's your own damn fault. You deserve Hell. So you fucking got it._

_***_

_  
_Lucifer smiles softly.

Finally.

Time to play.

***

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you and I hope this chapter wasn't too blahhh !


	7. Pleased to Meet You, Hope You Guess My Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two key introductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shortish one. But I think you'll enjoy it?

"You know who I am"

It's a statement, not a question.

"Lucifer"

***

The nightmares are the worst part. Alastair wears his father's body and paints him with his bruising touch; Sam, bloodied and laughing, stands on a mountain of mutilated corpses; his mother, dressed in ash and fire.

But at least he can scream now, and there is so much light, soft light. And strong arms that wrap around him, melt the terrors. Warm the ice that floods through his body. He's in a state of something else.

After a while, Dean drifts back to reality. He can still feel the remnants of his troubled sleep clinging to his consciousness, but they are more subdued than they have been in days.

 The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is the most brilliant shade of blue. At first, he thinks it's the sky. A song of freedom.

Dean looks around. He's lying in a soft, white bed, wearing a soft, white shirt. The room is wide and spotless. He looks up at a large window that is open on the high wall; he can see a glimmer of cloud, hear the giggle of songbirds.

The room is bare, save the bed. That, and the stranger sitting by his side- HOLY FUCK

Dean takes a minute to recuperate his startled heart.

"Is...this heaven?" he demands suspiciously (after recovering from what very well may have ended in premature cardiac arrest. Where did this guy come here, jesus).

"Dean Winchester" the man states instead of answering, in the most familiar solemn tone of gravel.

Dean feels his heart clench at the sound of the voice. Like something heard in a dream.

He presses his hand against his chest, where his torturer had spent a good deal of focus, and finds it does not hurt.

Dean's arms, his stomach, his legs, his face. He finds no remains of Alastair's craftsmanship, no festering wounds, not a speck of agony left on his skin.

Seriously...what the Hell?

The stranger is wearing a trenchcoat and a black suit. He is staring at Dean with unblinking eyes, a delicate frown on his face.

"Am I dead? Are you my reaper?"

For a brief moment, the stranger almost looks offended. The frown deepens and he retorts with just a trace of indignation,

"No, I'm Castiel. I'm an angel of the Lord"

***

"Is...Castiel still with the Sword?"

"Yes."

"He's been in there for days, do you not thi-"

"He has been tending to the man. The daemon Alastair's wounds were too powerful for an ordinary healing, and Castiel is undoubtedly the most skilled in that regard"

"But Castiel's condition! He's evidently developed some sort of...sympathies for the human? After his episodes over the past month, should  we not -"

"That is true, but Castiel is a good soldier despite his weakness in character. I do not believe we have to worry about him. Let him continue the healing."

***

Think again.

***

For a someone who specializes in mind control and manipulation, Andrew Gallagher seems to have a spot of trouble controlling his own mind.

Half of it's a blur, to be honest. Getting hired by Azazel to join the group house and run some business has introduced Andy to some serious quality trips. And the markets provide a little more than a little cash.

Opiates, barbs, stimulants, depressants, hallucinogens, pot: Legal, illegal, supernatural, natural, doesn't matter. Whatever. He's got it. Half the time he doesn't even have to assume his X-Men persona to get people to do what he wants: charm and supply are two things he's got plenty of, and they're all he needs.

It's complicated, of course. He could do whatever he wants, so why does he choose to live in a demonic household preparing for an apocalyptic war? Getting people to give you free shit, to fuck off, easy peasy.

But it's pretty nice here, isn't it?

He doesn't get bothered. Sometimes they take him along on their weird hunts, and they're all pretty rude. And they have some weeeeird kinks... But other than that he's free to smoke weed and read and watch _E.R._ (with only minimal snide remarks from his darling satanic housemates) and give zero to no fucks about anything whatsoever. 

But now.. the whole Sam thing...mucho suspiciouso..

Andy may have taken three tabs of acid and half a bottle of baby aspirin today, but that doesn't mean he doesn't realize there is some weird ass shit going on around here.

He'll get to the bottom of it.

But his jammies are so comfortable... and he's just started _Das Kapital..._ and he's not sure how but there's some ambient jazz playing from somewhere... it's not ideal, but it sounds squishy.. 

Fuck. Sam. Okay.

You've always gotta look out for your fellow psychic booknerd drug addicts.

***

"Get away from me" Sam snarls, fully aware that he's now pressing his back against the stucco wall and there is literally now where to go.

Literally and existentially. No, this is not the time for humour.

_You're fucked ,Sammy boy. Should've put that bullet in your brain when you had the chance. You would've gone straight to Hell, wouldn't have to deal with this detour._

"I'm not here to hurt you, Sam. I want to help you"

To say that Sam's laugh is derisive is an understatement.

"Like you helped my mother burn alive? Or how you helped turn me into some kind of freak, so I can fight your Holy War? Thanks, but I think I'll pass on your help."

Lucifer steps closer still, his smile never faltering for a second.

"I never did those things, Sam. But I am truly sorry you got hurt. I can give you the world, if you let me; I can fix what the demons broke."

Sam remains silent now, his face set in a fierce, contemptuous glare. His jaw muscles tighten, his breathing shallows as his fear mounts, but still he does not break eye contact.

_He's all you have. And now you'll know what true suffering feels like._

Lucifer wraps his fingers gently, but firmly, around Sam's wrists. His fingers feel like ice. He bends his mouth close to Sam's face and the Winchester is suddenly overcome with both revulsion and pleasure.

"I want you, Sammy. And I want to be yours, too. But I can't do anything without your consent."

Sam can feel the angel's breath against his neck, a cool brush of air. Sam's body is pushed all the way into the wall and Lucifer is but an eyelash length away from him.

Sam could swear he's going to get internal bruising from the hammering of his heartbeat. His breath hitches slightly.

"You need me to say yes?"

Lucifer nods, still smiling softly, still watching Sam with those cold, pale eyes. An icy finger barely grazes the front of Sam's shirt, and the hunter closes his eyes. Body at maximum tension. A moment passes.

His lids flutter open and he looks the Devil right in the eye.

"Go fuck yourself"

Lucifer sighs and steps back a bit, as if in resignation.

He gives a shrug, a little "well, what can you do" tilt of the head.

Before Sam can relax, Lucifer grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls down, hard. With a sharp knee in the face,  he sends the Winchester to the  ground, face covered in blood.

"I thought you might say that"

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Debating starting this whole PART II in a second part of like a series? A lot of things are getting started already.  
> Thanks so much for reading and being nice and you're all amazing people wow!


	8. Prisoners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing I can particularly summarize, but at the end we do have a new character introduced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, I haven't been wholly inspired lately, but here I am with a new chapter!  
> It's decently long so I hope you'll like it.  
> Um I've never said this but I don't own Supernatural. I know, I know, it comes off as a crazy surprise  
> I hope you enjoy this!

Sam's been roughed up badly in his time. Hunts gone wrong; demonic street fights; Brady in a pissy mood. Hell, even John Winchester was known to ease up battering his obedient elder boy to bruise up the wayward younger child. It wasn't common, of course. (Sam's fragile mental state and snarling defiance combined were often enough to get his old man to back off).

But honestly, most of the true pain and torture Sam has known has been within the confines of his fucked up mind. And mental agony is something quite different from this new, savage physical violence against his person. So raw, too real.

He doesn't fight back, doesn't try and defend himself. Maybe because Lucifer's strength grossly outmatches his own.

Hm. Maybe.

This first encounter, Lucifer sets his mouth into a grim smile and kicks Sam over, inspecting him silently with those eerie pale eyes. After a pause, the archangel sinks to his knees and crawls on top of Sam's bloodied, broken form, shrouding the young human's body with his ethereal chill.

"You can't lie to me, Sam.  I see all that rage and darkness and violence in your heart you try so hard to fight. I see everything. You know you're better than the rest. You know that you never belonged in that fucked up little family of yours, you never really belonged anywhere. You let yourself get dragged further to sin by those disgusting demons because you think you're part of the same filth."

The words hurt worse than the rib currently puncturing Sam's lung.

_He's right he's right he's right he's right_

"Oh Sam. My heart breaks for you."

Lucifer plants a kiss on Sam's forehead. His hands silkily run along the heavily marred skin, brush away wounds with cold white light of Lucifer's grace. The touch is gentle as it heals, but Sam can only close his eyes and barely fight back shudders of repulsion convulsing through his core.

The same hands that devastated Sam's body now peel away the injuries, leaving not a ghost of the damage behind. Their touch feels  perverse and wrong and oh god. oh God.

Oh no.

The archangel presses hard against Sam's unmoving body and tilts his head in mock innocence.

"I think we'll find a way to make us see eye to eye."

***

Dean is a hunter, goddamnit, He knows only too well the smell of a trap.

Knows only too well the chokehold of a threat poorly veiled as a gift.

It's been about a week or so in Cape Mook, and already he is acutely aware that his pretty white room is a prison, and those nerd angels outside are his wardens.

 He is still weak from his trials with Alastair, still so uncertain of the foreign environment he finds himself in, still so unprepared for any kind of fight, that he does not yet act upon every instinct screaming in his body to run.

So he does what Sammy would have done. The baby Winchester was always the clever one, he'd stay and get acquainted with his surroundings, try to gain information before manipulating his way out of a jail break.

So far, from talks with that skeevy, bald Zachariah and the bad bitch Uriel, Dean knows that some "Michael" character who wants his ass for something (well, story of Dean's goddamn life).

That something sounds a hell of a lot like helping this mook start a goddamn apocalypse.

"Why the fuck should I help this bastard out in a holy pissing contest" Dean hisses to himself through gritted teeth. His frustration is only mounting, the fear beating away in his chest only spreading.

But will he even have a choice?

They keep making hints that he owes them, for saving his life. They dragged him out of that absolute hellhole. They gripped him tight and raised him away, saved him from the darkest time in his young life.

Is there not a due that must be paid?

Is there a choice?

He closes his eyes. The voice echoing within his mind is Sam's, snapping at him with that beautifully familiar bitchtone.

 _There's always a choice._ _It's called free fucking will._

But since when has Dean had a will of his own? Dad never really underlined that as a favourable virtue. Actually, obedience and submission were the only character traits he insisted Dean adopt.

_Dad's the reason you're in this fucking mess. It's all so like him, isn't it, selling your ass to these power hungry mooks. It should've been him on the rack. You never did anything to deserve this._

"No, Sammy" Dean murmurs, aware that his face is suddenly warm and wet.

"I did"

His eyes flutter open to see a confused Castiel invading his personal space.

"JESUS CHRIST" Dean half screams, scrambling back against the wall of his bed.

"Dean. I thought I made myself clear: my name is Castiel"

Dean lets out a long sigh and rolls his eyes heavily at his weird little medico angel.

"Yes, Cas, I know. You scared the shit out of me"

Not surprisingly, Castiel flicks his eyes to the sheets in search of any shit that might have been scared out of Dean during the scare. Oh. Not literally. Okay.

"How are you?" he asks with something akin to earnestness.

Dean is pretty fucking far from okay. He's locked in some weird angel mansion with badly masked threats for him to comply as an assistant to some world-frying war, his father is AWOL, his brother is worse than dead, and holy shit Cas actually has reeeeeally nice bone structure.

What.

"I'm fine, Cas"

Dean is torn. There is something comfortable about Castiel, almost like the only thing protecting Dean from getting dragged to archdouche Michael by the other mooks is the weird, blue eyed angel. Something about the way Castiel's eyes harden when Zachariah makes a rapey comment or Inias gets too close, and they back off.

It's pretty clear that all the other angels think Cas is a basket case. But he's the one that's been gluing Dean back together, and the hunter has grown fond of his company.

But does he trust him?

Fuck no.

Hell, Dean doesn't even trust himself.

***

Andy slips on his Ray Bans and flicks a cigarette he bummed off Meg in between his lips. It's been a while since he's seen natural sunlight, and he can't really say he's missed the way it bitchslaps his retinas with pain.

But he needs some fresh air to contemplate his next move. He turns the kaleidoscope of information in his brain and watches the facts tumble in deliciously synchronized patterns. Here is what is known:

About a week ago, Sam was carted off to some mysterious destination, never to be seen or heard from again. Azazel hasn't been back since, and there is something so kidnappy about the whole situation that Andy has diagnosed himself with the heebie jeebies.

Ruby seemed upset by the departure of her boytoy. She then disappeared for a few days as well, only to return to their shared home different. Andy's powers don't work too well on demons, but he tapped into the psyche of her very comatose vessel and he could sense the residue of extreme torture.

Brady has been intensifying his rounds of fucking up enemy demons. Andy comes along for a few and notes that the enemy resistance is growing reeeeeal nervous.

And then there's Meg. Meg's been a little off ever since she asked Andy for White Clouds, the pills. Which are made of a specific chemical compound that wouldn't even work on demons. (They'd react to the sulfur). They were for a "friend". Pffff.

 Not to be bring back the seventh grade, but seems like some little succubus round these parts has a cruuuuuush.

Seriously, though, Meg has changed. Andy just needs to find where her newly formed buttons are.

Finally, the whispers of the apocalypse. Mutters of "the Boss", "Morningstar", "Light Bringer", "Sexy Satan" are filling Andy's ears, both from allies and enemies and witches alike. The whispers not only include talks of Lucifer gaining power, but also of a growing operation on the side of the angels.

Really, reeeeally doesn't sound promising.

Andy takes a long drag out of his cigarette, blowing out the smoke in pretty rings.

He doesn't have very many angelic customers, but he knows for a fact that White Clouds are definitely the heavenly kind of drug.

Angels against demons, huh?

He flicks the cigarette stub into the pavement and gets up from the curb. With an elegant brushing of dust off his bum, Andy sets off to continue his rescue mission.

He slips headphones into his ears and puts his music to 007 theme song. Damn right.

***

Afterwards (and this goes on for days) Sam is beaten and torn apart and verbally abused in the most imaginative ways possible.

Lucifer doesn't do all the damage himself, of course. His subordinates take on the majority of that hardship. Usually, it's some gang of black eyed sons of bitches, but the occasional guest star sadist will venture in to work on the youngest Winchester.

They taunt him with mentions of family, creative little shots such as:

"Your mom looks great, by the way. Still roasting nice and crispy."

"You turned yourself into a freak, and now you won't put out? Pussy."

"What's it like to be the Devil's slut? I'm actually kind of jealous"

But Sam never bats an eyelash, never snaps up and tears out their useless fucking throats.

Never fights back.

They go about it like the main goal is to beat him into submission.

It's not.

Sam Winchester is what you might call a bright young thing, it doesn't take him long to figure out what's really going on.

It doesn't take him long to play a game of his own.

***

The pills that Meg has given him are running dry. Castiel's angelic anxiety increases as he watches Dean Winchester's face struggle to mask the fear that is pounding within the human's heart.

He's not stupid, this hunter. He knows that the other angels are growing aggressive, that Michael's patience is wearing thin.

"He's still healing" Castiel snaps, and it's true. The daemon Alastair made wounds that runs so deep Castiel doubts they'll ever be fully healed. But most of the damage is being washed away quite nicely and Castiel finds himself at a loss.

He thought he had been "good". His stress had been at the prospect of an innocent human, barely a man, be tortured beyond reason so that they could carry out the prophecy and manipulate him into commencing the apocalypse.

Now that the human was safe and sound in Castiel's gentle hands, the stress should be relieved. He should be untroubled, with Dean Winchester's pain being drawn out and his preparation in being a saviour for the side of Good and Light and God.

Castiel is right to warn the other angels of being too harsh with the human: he may not understand human needs or emotions too well, but he knows that Dean Winchester feels like a cornered animal. He knows that the hunter is repulsed by their attacks, that he only wants to live his life a mere hunter, saving people and hunting supernatural killers. He knows that Dean Winchester has suffered, not only at the hands of Alastair, but at the hands of fate. His father was a cruel, cruel man and subjected him to unspeakable horrors. Castiel knows this because Dean whimpers or screams in his sleep, when nightmares wrap their cold hands around his psyche.

He feels something like how he imagines pity or sadness. This poor man, already so old within.

Castiel wants the war to start, same as everyone. But he wants to protect this scared, pure human from the harshness of the world.

No amount of soothing drugs or weary words from his brothers and sisters will change the fact that Castiel knows, deep down

He will have to make a choice. And soon.

Time is running short.

***

This is definitely going to hurt in the morning.

Sam struggles to take a rattling gasp of breath before his face is smashed back against the gritty floorboards of whatever cockroach infested shithole abandoned apartment they're in today.

His vision is turning dark red and he's pretty sure he can feel brain matter sliding down his throat. Okay, maybe not. Still, his condition isn't promising. For one, he really, really never needed to know what his ribcage looks like when sliced beyond repair, but hey. It probably builds character.

His spine receives another firm kick.

"Why can't you be a good little whore like your brother, huh, Winchester? At least Dean-o made himself useful when he got on his knees"

The demon is unnecessarily angry: her fists bite with animosity and resentment, her black eyes smoke with a glowing determination.

Poor thing.

Sam gives a mottled chuckle, a sick kind of laugh that stops even this pissed off little fire cracker in her tracks.

"You can talk shit all you want, sweetheart" Sam barely spits the words out, but his tone is calm and mocking.

"Whatever you're doing to me, you'll get it so. much. worse."

The demon looks a little taken aback at her victim's sudden snark, but only narrows her meatsuit's eyes as she digs her heel into Sam's broken wrist.

 Sam just gives her a bloody smile.

He knows it's true. She probably doesn't, silly demon girl.

Lucifer can absolutely drool at the sight of Sam screaming in pain. The archangel's vessel actually hardens when it sees Sam writhing in agony on the floor, covered in his own blood.

But only when it's at the archangel's own hands.

Lucifer might set demon scum to kick the shit out of his precious weapon, but that doesn't mean he likes it. Sam's been holding back, so the more aggressive the demon, the slower their eventual death or exorcism is afterwards. Lucifer tries to be discreet, but Sam's still a psychic. He still fucking knows.

It's been at least a week, so the withdrawal has already started clawing up and down the walls of his veins, but even without the extra boost Sam could easily overpower this bitch. Snap her neck, rip out her disgusting excuse for a soul and thrust it into perdition, right after making her suffer pain that even Hell can't provide. Then spatter the organs of her dead meatsuit across the already redstained apartment walls.

All that without lifting a finger.

Not that he could lift a finger if he tried. His hands are in a bad state. He's pretty sure broken is a gross understatement.

The demon bitch sends her foot straight into Sam's throat and it's all totally worth it.

Why let them rattle his cage, provoke him into betraying the power that festers inside of him?

Sometimes, the demons walk in already bloodied up. Sam's veins bitch and moan and every instinct he has wants to succumb to hunger and boredom and pain and unleash the hurricane of fury riled up within the core of his being.

Well fuck that. Sam is through with being manipulated into these fucked up plans. He's sick of being a toy of someone else's desires, a junkie without a will, a freak paving his way to Hell with intentions that aren't even good.

So he endures beatings, he endures the nightmarish visions of withdrawal, the human thirst for water, the demonic thirst for blood.

He endures Lucifer's seductive tones and caressing touches when he comes in to heal Sam back to premium fitness.

Sam's not too sure if the archangel is pleased at his mocking endurance, the sheer strength of his will. The archangel might actually be happy to see that his weapon doesn't snap so easily, that Sam Winchester has finally learned to control himself.

Wow. This experience really is character building. And the delight he gets in demonic frustration at his inability to break...

Lucifer might also be growing frustrated. He wants to start an apocalypse, he needs his ultimate weapon to regain its taste for bloodlust and join him in his holy war. Instead, his weapon has chosen now of all times to practice self control. Sam has noticed Lucifer's kisses have become increasingly more desperate, his pale eyes flashing more when they search his own.

He wonders how far Lucifer will go to get him to turn darker than he ever has before.

Sam can hardly fucking wait.

***

Tears will not tumble out of his golden eyes, so twisted with sorrow and exasperation.

They can't.

Why does this always happen? Why does family have to end in blood, every time?

He just wants it to be over.

The end.

Please, Father, anyone, please let it end.

Tears will not stream down his fair face, will not roll down his chin in rivers of sorrow.

Those stupid son's of bitches.

Fuck 'em.

Tears will not be wiped bitterly from his cheek.

Fuck them

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading or liking or commenting or anything :) I really appreciate you all. Let me know if there's anything you'd like to see happen in the story.


	9. Fresh Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Handholding and new alliances and oh shit...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Non-con kissing and I guess a little non con touching.  
> ENJOY !?  
> Also sorry about ANY grammar/spelling mistakes

What is it?

Maybe it's his weakness for the human species. He always was weirdly fond of the "stupid mud monkeys".

Maybe it's the absence of Father. His apparently permanent disappearance hit Castiel harder than most. (Albeit not nearly as hard as it hit Gabriel)

Maybe the apparent stench of corruption that's been festering in the Manor for a while now has finally reached his senses. What's the point of being a good soldier if your brothers and sisters are giving you little cause for obedience.

Maybe it's the fact that sister Naomi got him hooked on brainmelting drugs to keep his stress from ruining this same unconditional obedience.

Maybe it's Meg. Meg and her ashy, demonic soul that flutters just so. After all, she is the one that sparked in Castiel the concept of sin, of insubordination. Of rebellion.

Castiel is sitting on the edge of the large white bed, watching down concernedly at Dean Winchester's sleeping form. The sheets are all entangled around the broken hunter's body, and his face is contorted with some nightmarish agitation. He's been writhing in this uneasy sleep for hours, every so often letting out a whimper that strikes actual pain in Castiel's "cold" angelic heart.

Castiel closes his eyes and tries to argue away the decision he made yesterday.

Maybe...

After a few moments of thought, Castiel feels a sudden pressure against his hand. His eyelids flutter open to see that Dean Winchester has reached out in the midst of his anguished slumber and intertwined his fingers with Castiel's.

Castiel applies a gentle squeeze, and watches Dean's shoulders relax visibly.

He watches Dean's expression soften from wretched to peaceful, and listens as the hunter's breathing gradually steadies. The rest can now actually be described as restful.

The two remain like this for the rest of the night, with Dean's fingers curled desperately around Castiel's soft, cool hand.

***

Lucifer presses his lips against Sam Winchester's bloodied mouth, the closing kiss of another long, backbreaking day. Sam doesn't fight back. Doesn't move a damn muscle. He is slick with cold sweat and fresh blood, making no sound or movement save the rattle of his laboured breathing.

The archangel doesn't finish the healing just yet, preferring instead to muse over the absolute work of art lying limp in his arms.

The boy truly is _more._ More than a horrifyingly powerful weapon of mass destruction, more than an intricately manipulated force in the coming war. More than a brilliant mind or a pretty face.

 More, even, than the perfect vessel to ultimately contain the energy of Lucifer's grace.

[Because that is the plan. The endgame.

They need to start out separate, two bodies fighting the _better_ fight. But in the end, Gestalt does not apply... no, the sum of the parts can't even compare to what the whole can accomplish.

Sam knows it, too. Lucifer can feel it, that copper flavour of Sam's infernally wretched struggle against himself. He's battling his destined nature, fighting every fibre of his being. Lucifer can see how the fierce bite of addiction is shaking away his vessel's sanity, begging him to just fucking let go.]

Lucifer recalls that Lilith had been sure that Sam was well along on the path to ultimate darkness. The demon slut Ruby had manipulated him away from family and humanity, broken him down so far that the archangel's seduction should have been effortless.

Yet the hard eyes that stare back at the archangel are defiant and unblinking. The heart beats steady, the will does not break under the power of temptation or desire or anger.

Sam Winchester is all too capable of learning from his mistakes.

Lucifer trails his tongue roughly along the sharp, scratched cheekbones of Sam's face. He pushes his fingers through blood-matted hair and grabs a clump, forcing Sam's head back. This does not elicit the desired cry of pain from the hunter's lips (as Lucifer hopes it will), but rather an angry hiss.

Lucifer relents his grip a little, and sighs. Apparently it is too much to ask for some fun with this glorious body before he wears it.

No matter. Simple taunting and violence cannot rouse Sam into an appropriate display of his abilities, nor can the temptation of demon blood draw him out from this resolute hunger strike.

Lucifer gives the side of Sam's neck a few licks before pulling the soft skin between his teeth and sucking.

He runs a finger against Sam's exposed abdomen (his shirt is a bloodied rag somewhere on the other side of the room), dipping fingertips into unhealed lesions. He drags a pattern of blood along those taut muscles before clawing his way tenderly down, down.

Sam sits up with a start, flinging the intruding hand away from his body.

Ahh. A reaction.

Lucifer is a patient angel, but the time is nigh to kick things up a notch.

***

Andy is experiencing an emotion bordering on upset for the first time since...well. Since he was forced to blow out the brains of his psychotic evil twin.

See, his job here at Casa D'Azazel has granted Andy access to a fiesta of high calibre substances that have almost....almost...helped him along the way to forgetting the hurricane of shit that was his past life.

But today, excluding the handful of Ritalin he's chased down with a pint of chocolate milk, he is sober.

Sober means focus, which is what he needs. But it also means an aerial attack of reflections of his current life situation, such as:

"My whole family is dead, partially thanks to me" and "I had an evil twin. My life is ridiculous" and of course "My only friends are demons and one mostly-human gigantor that's been kidnapped by Satan so that together they can lead an army of hellspawn against the angels which will result in a bloody apocalypse that will burn the world and jesus christ I'm going to die"

Cue hyperventilation.

Fortunately, Andy manages to practice mind control on himself, and calms the fuck down before his housemates notice. It is unlikely they are even home at this sexy hour of the night, but safe is infinitely more appealing than sorry.

"Damn God it, Andrew" his inner Jedi Master chastises,

"Pull yourself together. Most superheroes have dead parents. What about you? That's right. Double Orphan. Just the extra boost of orphan you need to get a handle on this fucktrucking disaster"

He exhales slowly, and tucks his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie, where the material is exceptionally soft. His fingers delight in the sensational fabric until his breathing is sufficiently steady.

The freaking out toned down, Andy drags a sweatered hand across his face and slips out the bathroom door.

He's in the third floor hallway now, and about to slide downstairs when

What? What's that, Andy? What do your Elvin ears hear?

_"-sure all that glitters is gold and she's buuuying the stairway to heaven."_

Andy passes, mesmerized, past the rows of closed guest room doors, his bare feet quietly dragging across cherry hardwood. He follows the sound of Robert Plant's sultry crooning down to the end of the dark hall.

He gently pushes the door open to find a completely inebriated Meg on the bedroom floor, grooving to Zeppelin. She's got a laptop (probably Sam's, judging by the decent sound quality) playing the legendary song on her thighs, and a nearly empty forty of whiskey in her right hand.

"The war's a brewing, Android" she giggles without raising her head. She sloppily runs a hand through her messy hair.

"Morningstar'll fix Sammy right up, and we're going to take the God Squad down." she pauses to take another swig of liquor.

"And we're going to heaven. But what about Clarence?"

Andy takes the offered booze from her hands and takes back a drink himself. Is she talking about _It's a Wonderful Life_? Are demons even allowed to watch Christmas movies?

"You know, Android. I'm pretty simple. Give me a mission and I'll do it, loyal to the end."

Andy sits down beside her, fishing out the pack of cigarettes protruding from her leather jacket pocket.

 "But..?"

She looks up at Andy, her true eyes flickering black at him.

She studies him a moment, her face thoughtful.

"I don't know. The words 'Perspective Change' are coming to mind"

Andy lights a smoke and slips it between her fingers. Their eyes meet, and the word trust is never spoken.

Do go on.

***

Dean is startled awake, overcome with a sensation of urgency.

Castiel has his hand on Dean's wrist, and he's pulling the hunter up, off the bed.

"Cas, what's-?" but Castiel shakes his head subtly. Something is different, something is wrong? Or right or?

Dean is stumbling along, following Castiel to the door of his white prison.

"Jesus, Cas, you're bleeding!"

"Don't worry. It is just a precaution. Stay close to me"

The angel's grip on Dean's wrist tightens, and after a few minutes of foreign muttering at the door, it slides open.

They step out into a white hallway and there are bodies toppled by the entry way.

Understanding is rapidly firing through Dean's consciousness and they're running now, running down white halls on white floors.

Without warning, Castiel moves his hand up to Dean's shoulder and grips it tightly.

There's a sensation like being pulled apart at maximum speed and they're suddenly

Somewhere quite else.

***

Lilith and Alastair hush, aware of the sudden fire in Lucifer's cold eyes.

"Alastair" he says quietly, his grace glowing just a fraction brighter.

"Someone needs to get me Alastair"

Lilith narrows her white eyes, unwilling to question Morningstar, but thoroughly confused.

"Do you think Ally could break your toy when no one else can?" she asks skeptically.

Azazel (much more acquainted with Winchester logic than his childlike comrade) chuckles.

"Of course not, sweetheart" Lilith flashes him an angry pout at the patronizing tone.

"But good old Al has done some serious work  on Dean Winchester. How do you think Sammy will react when he sees what our friend has done to big bro?"

Oh

***

Sam feels a sudden chill run up his spine.

Fuck.

***

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to all who comment and liked and bookmarked and subscribed and read and even just opened this fic and casually glanced over it. You're all amazing and please give me more feedback.  
> Seriously. If you have any ideas you'd like to throw out, go for it!


	10. Turn and Face the Strange (Ch-ch-Changes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you miss Meg's storyline, do not fret! I have abandoned her these past few chapters, but she is definitely coming back, and she's definitely getting involved in a bigger way.
> 
> Also, if you're confused about "the Manor" or why Dean was being tortured in the first place, or how Sam got into the demon business, or where John is...PATIENCE MY BEAUTIFUL YOUNG PADAWANS!
> 
> All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)

***

Sam Winchester cannot be saved.

No, not after this.

***

They are somewhere else entirely. Dean takes a moment to remember how to breathe, bending forward with his fists crushed against his thighs. Inh...inha..inhale. Exhale. Goddamn.

"Damnit Cas, a little warning would have been..."

He trails off as awareness of his surroundings creeps in. They are standing on drying grass, a quiet moor bathed in hushed twilight.

A warm breeze whispers against Dean's cheek. All the panic, the pain, the anger that has been swelling within him, caging him these past few weeks...

is suddenly washed away with the gentle wind, with the scenery of strange, dusky grassland...

With the sensation of Castiel's tight grip still on his shoulder.

Dean feels that vicelike, years-old pressure release the hold on his heart, just for a moment.

And in that fleeting, perfect second, Dean Winchester allows himself the luxury of hope.

***

"Oh my..."

Lilith's pearly eyes are wide with surprise. The corner of her childish mouth is turned up in a sort of unconscious smile, as if she is still comprehending the horrifying delight in the scene before her.  Azazel is struggling to stand, his face contorted in a combination of smirking pride and crippling pain.

Alastair (or what remains of him) is sprawled on the mildewey basement floor of some broken down psychiatric hospital. His corpse is mangled, and the expression on his face is frozen warped. Eyes the same as Lilith's, but shot with blood and grime and pure agony. To say that Daemon Alastair's death was slow and painful is a gross understatement.

Arms crossed and pale eyes glittering, Lucifer lets out a long whistle.

His vessel is excited, and he is almost fully erect, but he barely notices. Lucifer's angelic mind is whirring as he looks down at that glorious, tremoring form sitting by Alastair's carcass.

All hail Sam Winchester.

There is blood trickling from Sam's nose, dripping down his pink lips. He wipes it away with a shaky hand.

He looks up and Lucifer sees the boy's pupils have dilated and spread to the rest of his eyes. Glossy black. A dazed blink, and they return to their natural, hazelesque state.

His cheeks are slick with streaming tears, and Lucifer smiles.

***

Meg's refusal to elaborate on her promising "change of heart" is leaving Andy anxious.

He's starting to have a bit of a change of heart himself.

He has no allies, no leads. He had thought with the information he had already collected, there would still be hope to change the course of events: he is beginning to fret that he is wrong. He can't even be sure that Sam has succumbed to join Satan in his quest to burn the world. Sam Winchester is hard to read, Andy wonders if perhaps he had misjudged him.

 Maybe it's better to stock up on kush, pills, chocolate coated pretzels, and his Lord of the Rings collections, and find a place to bunker against the coming apocalypse.

Maybe it's better to burn through this life before it is flayed away.

Andy is curled up in the living room coach. The heat is on high (Ruby's out of the house on a "business trip", so he has the luxury of climate control. Out of all the house demon's, she least likes remembrances of Hell sweet home). He's wearing sweatpants and a snuggy Creedence sweater, but he's still shivering. Chilled to the bone.

 _Double orphan_ he reminds himself as he scrolls fruitlessly through Sam's laptop (which he had filched off a drunken Meg).

_Double the strength_

Andy is on the verge of surrender, when he stumbles upon a news article of a nearby town.

"DEATH BY GLITTER"

Hmmmm. His Andy senses are tingling all over.

"...this Tuesday.....asphyxiation...local authorities are perplexed....crime scene coated in glitter, along with his face and skin.....autopsy report shows that all his internal organs filled with some sort of glittering substance.....including his arteries, spleen, thyroid glands, stomach........... actively protested...."...homophobe. I'd say he got his just desserts".....

Oh yes.

***

Dean spirals back to reality.

"Where are we? What are we doing?" he demands warily, his hunter's logic struggling with his instinctual desire to trust the angel.

"We are standing in a field in maritime Canada." is the literal response.

After a moment's consideration, Castiel moves his hand to Dean's stomach.

"Cas! wha-??"

"This might hurt a bit" Castiel informs a startled Winchester, before closing his eyes and willing a white light under his hand.

Dean opens his mouth to ask again what in the fuck Cas thinks he's doing, but instead emits a clenched groan as his ribs are showered in searing pain.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?" he yells as Castiel removes his hand.

"A warding sigil. So my brothers and sisters cannot find you" Castiel replies, unconcerned at the hunter's use of outdoor voice.

Oh.  Huh.

"Uh...thanks. Cas..what...?"

Castiel turns to face Dean. Even under the dim light of the moon, the hunter can see (practically _feel_ ) the angel's searching blue gaze.

"As you may have gathered in your days at the Manor, you are the prophesized one. The human worthy enough to fight on the side of the Angels in the coming Apocalypse. Ultimately, you are Michael's true vessel, his sword. With your consent, Michael would have supreme power in his battle against soldiers of Hell and our fallen brother."

"Sooo....what the fuck? That's what those mooks were talking about, Michael wants to use me as a meatpuppet to deep fry the Earth?"

Castiel's forehead crinkles in slight confusion.

"......................Yes?"

"But if I'm here in...buttfuck nowwhere with you, then Michael and his angel dicklings can't do jack shit, right?"

Castiel's confusion is slowly shifting to exasperation. All angels are polyglots, but comprehending Dean Winchester is sometimes a trial unto itself.

"If I understand your meaning, no. The forces of Heaven and Hell alike are already on the verge of war. Michael already has his garrisons prepared for the End, and it is only a matter of time before he finds a worthy enough vessel to lead his armies into full battle.

Which is just as well, considering that Lucifer is about to let his own armies loose. It is a matter of days before one side makes a mov-"

"Wait. Wait hold on. Lucifer? Michael and Lucifer. As in..Revelations. Michael. And the Devil."

"That is what I said"

"So this is _THE_ Apocalypse...oh God."

Everything Castiel has been talking about so far, everything that dickhead Zachariah had been alluding to and Royal Bitch Uriel had been leering about, is only just now shattering through Dean's already strained comprehension. This has to be a fucking joke.

"God is gone, Dean."

The end of the world. Jesus.... Dean shudders involuntarily.

"So, you saved me because..."

"Because I care. Ever since Father left, I have been wandering. Lost. I remained obedient because I didn't know anything else. But you changed that Dean. You gave me perspective. This is the matter of billions of lives being snuffed out. I have suffered attacks of guilt lately: a soldier's guilt. It is time I act on what I truly believe is right"

Dean is breathing hard, mesmerized by the actual emotion behind the words of this so-called cold, calculating creature.

"So what should we do? Take me to my dad, maybe he'll-"

"Absolutely not" Castiel snarls, his eyes flaring sharply. Dean takes a step back, eyes wide. He has never seen his gentle, healing angel so furious.

"I spent days on end healing the wounds Alastair inflicted on you. Your soul, body, and mind were all shattered and torn, wrought with lesions. But none of your scars, none of your nightmares can even compare to the damage your "father" left on you"

Ordinarily, Dean would snap back. All those times he'd shun Sammy's hateful words on the subject.. Any echoes  of Sam's irate words could easily be hushed down by the strength of whiskey.

No one should talk shit about John Winchester. He was a good man, a good father... a good..

Dean feels his body slumping, feels his knees collapsing to the ground. He feels himself choking back sobs, feels his hands pressed against the back of his head.

He feels Castiel's arms and wings wrap around him, absorbing his anguish.

Holding him together.

***

"Leave us" Lucifer commands, and Lilith all but skips her way out the basement, with Azazel limping after her, his yellow eyes glowing with satisfaction.

Lucifer kicks aside Alastair's corpse and bends down to Sam's sitting level.

He doesn't speak, only smiles at a loose tear that tumbles off of Sam's eyelash.

He waits for a few breaths of a moment, knowing that the boy (no longer a boy, or never was a boy in the first place) is replaying the past three hours in his brilliant little mind.

***

_"I've got a present for you, Sam, darling" Lucifer purrs, and Sam is confused, frightened: another demon, another day of beatings and torture but this one's different. Something is wrong something is so fucking wrong but Sam doesn't know why. His eyes are like Lilith's, frosted glass._

_"Oh. But of course you haven't been properly introduced"_

_And Lucifer places a cold finger against Sam's temple._

_His head is filled with sights and smells and pains and_

_Dean._

_Dean is alive. Oh thank God Dean is alive._

_But then._

_He sees, He knows._

_"Dean" he screams or maybe he doesn't. And he sees the torture, hears the poison hisses._

_Rage and pain and love splits him open, snaps him away and Sam's mind is clear._

_The torture is long, slow, methodical yet messy. And intensely satisfying._

_Each scream of pain is like a flame to his libido. So right..so right so right so_

_wrong_

_In the killing stroke, the only regret he feels is that he could not save his brother._

_(He has always known he cannot be saved)_

_As a finishing touch, he sends Azazel collapsing to the ground, spasming with pain._

_Yellow eyes can be dealt with later._

_Sam Winchester, the Boy with the Demon Blood, new Boy King of Hell, sinks to the ground._

_He cannot be saved._

And Sam flicks his eyes up at the archangel, his demon, his villain.

The spinning has stopped.

Lucifer hesitates, then softly, softly kisses Sam's bottom lip.

Sam freezes at the touch, but Lucifer persists, silky lips like whispers on skin.

Without warning, without a thought, Sam loosens his mouth, wraps his fingers around Lucifer's sandy blonde hair, and lets the Devil in.

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously you lovely creatures, if you find anything off or wrong about this chapter, or something I should work on, let me know.  
> If you have an idea, or have a pairing, or any questions, please let me know!  
> And if you're still enjoying this, by all means, let me know!!  
> pppppPPPPLEEEEEAAAAASE comment, I'd /love/ to know your thoughts!


	11. That was then (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into the past, three years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Explicit child abuse and John being a piece of shit.  
> Punchy violence.

_THREE YEARS AGO. SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA_

_***_

"Get out of my way" John screams, spit flying from his snarling lips. He's got a silver blade clenched tightly in his fist, and the tip is pointed at his youngest son's chest. He takes a deep breath and waits expectantly.

Sam's face is pale, distraught, but he holds his ground. He stares back into the tempest of his father's wrath with hard, defiant eyes. His hands are outstretched protectively behind him, and he's still using his body as a shield between John's rage and the girl by the wall.

"I'm not going to let you hurt her. Sir."

"You don't give me orders, you fucked up cunt. Step aside before I beat your ass raw."

John takes a threatening step forward, knife still poised.

"She hasn't killed anyone. She saved my life."

John lets out a derisive laugh, lowering his knife for a moment to regard Sam with a cold eye.

"I don't care if she's Mother-fucking- Theresa. She's a freak of nature, a kitsune _whore_. She's going to die tonight, and she's going to die slowly. Get. Out. Of. My. Way."

Sam doesn't move an inch.

"You ungrateful piece of shit" John hisses, moving closer so that Sam is forced to push himself and Amy, the young kitsune, back a few steps.

"How dare you disobey me? I'm the reason you aren't rotting in some hellhole, and this, _this,_ is how you repay me?" he pauses,  narrowing his eyes at an ever insubordinate Sam.

"I've been too lenient with you. After I kill this dirty monster slut, I'm going to teach you to never disrespect me ag-"

"Let's be honest, there's nothing to respect" Sam spits back, clutching Amy's shaking wrist.

"You'd kill an innocent girl; you're just a killer. A filthy, disgusting drunk." Sam's heart is racing hard, but his face is still drained of all blood.

"And let's not forget the times you've whored my brother out to greasy fucking cunts. You thought I wouldn't find out about that? You make me sick"

A violent silence falls and the room is filled with unimaginable tension. But it lasts only a fraction of a second before

"Amy, RUN!"

John stumbles back in shocked pain, clutching his newly bloodied face. Sam might only be sixteen, but a lifetime of training and relentless physical activity have hardened him into a competent, strong fighter.

Amy hesitates for a moment, unwilling to leave her friend behind, but Sam just shakes his head.

No. Go to safety. This is my battle.

She's out of the room right as John Winchester pulls Sam down to the ground. He's hitting him hard, punching his face and stomach with crazed force, painting his fists with the blood of his child.

"I didn't raise you to disobey me and defend fucking freaks" John yells, along with a string of colourful and violent profanities.

This isn't new, of course. He's beaten Dean senseless plenty of times; the older Winchester boy has suffered his own degree of broken ribs and black eyes.

But as he's striking the living hell out of his mentally unstable younger child, John finds this experience is something quite new. He pauses for a moment to glare down at the insolent child, when Sam spits a mouthful of blood into his face. The next moment, John finds himself flying into the wall, flung back with some supernatural force.

Sam is standing now, his features bloody and already bruising. He has his arm outstretched, and his expression is malevolent.

"Hate to break it to you, old man" he hisses, bloody trickling out of his split lip.

"But it looks like you raised a freak of nature. And you call yourself a good hunter."

"Get out of my brother you son of a bitch!"

Sam is very suddenly cold and wet. Without releasing his hold on John, Sam turns to see his brother standing in the doorway to the room. Both John and Dean are surprised at the lack of pain Sam's holy water shower is causing him.

"I'm not a demon, Dean" he says gently, psychically crushing John Winchester's windpipe before the man can say anything to confuse the situation.

He picks up the fallen silver knife from the ground.

"Or a ghoul, or a shifter." Sam drags the edge of the blade along his collarbone, drawing out a crimson trickle of blood.

Dean shakes his head, unable to comprehend the situation.

Sam can see terror in his eyes, distrust, loathing.

"Dean. It's just me. He's the real monster" Sam clenches his fist, causing John to produce a choked noise.

"Let him go."

Sam's fingers are itching to kill the son of a bitch, end all the misery and suffering his so-called father has caused.

But he can see himself reflected in his brother's eyes, nothing more than a murderous abomination.

Dean has been conditioned to hate monsters his whole life. Demons are the reason his mother died, the reason why his happy childhood was torn apart into a living hell of an existence. The supernatural made his father a sick, sick man, turned him cruel, deprived him of the capacity to properly love.

To Dean, Sam is already dead.

Something snaps within Sam Winchester. He releases John, who collapses to the ground, retching and gasping for breath.

Sam walks up towards the doorway, and Dean steps aside, still watching the thing that used to be his baby brother.

"Stay safe, Dean" Sam whispers, and he leaves the room.

It is only outside, once he's a safe distance away from the motel, that he hears the sound of his heart break.

***

_BACK TO THE PRESENT_

***

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

The archangel Gabriel is glaring across the ring of (holy) fire he has been trapped in. 

No one pulls a trick on the trickster. Especially not this dumpy kushbrained douche paddle.

"Uh, well.."  

Andrew Gallagher smiles apologetically. This is going to be a little awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally thrive off your comments. Lay them on meeeeeee pleeease. Love you and thanks for reading!


	12. Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set two weeks after the events of Chapter 10  
> Michael is pretty OOC and I am so sorry :(  
> Also pretty brief chapter, sorry again

Lucifer's glare is reminiscent of a Siberian winter.

"What are you doing here, Michael?"

He narrows his frigid, unsmiling eyes and tilts his head expectantly. 

"Oh, I was just in the neighbourhood. Thought I'd drop by."

Michael brushes an invisible speck of dust off his sharp new (meat)suit and sits himself on the leather sofa across his brother. This entire house is surprisingly pretty nice, especially considering the usual roach-infested shitholes.

"What? Can't I be concerned for my little brother's well being?"

Apparently not. Lucifer isn't even marginally intimidated, but there is no question that Michael's surprise visit is violently unwelcome.

"Michael."

With one hand, Lucifer is stroking the blonde hair of the young girl lounging by his feet. Although her form is delicate and childlike, Michael can see a dark and twisted soul within. She's clearly one of Lucifer's daemonic abominations: judging by the immense, ancient power hanging around her skin like charred grace, she's one of his first.

Her vessel's blue eyes roll back to reveal marbled white orbs (confirming Michael's "first" theory) as she regards the elder archangel with a similar cool contempt as her creator.

"Well," Michael grins, leaning back and shifting his gaze away from the daemon.

"I must admit, I absolutely had to see your new whore."

Held close by Lucifer's side is a damaged creature, all long limbs and glazed eyes. The boy's pale skin is stained with dark bruises around his throat and wrists, and his mouth is set in a most charming frown.

"You always did like your meat tenderized" Michael remarks casually, watching his brother's expression closely.

Lucifer chuckles lightly, the ice in his eyes melting a little to give way to a malicious glitter.

"Really, Mike? No need to take your frustrations out on Sam: you have your own "Sword" to antagonize."

Ah, good. Lucifer's intel is nowhere near as efficient as-

"Oh, wait. That's right.You don't: not even the Righteous Man could handle your bullshit."

Michael sighs wearily. He really is never going to live this one down. 

But it really isn't of much import: even if he can't locate that damned Dean Winchester, Michael is already making arrangements for the next-best thing to a true vessel. 

And this time, he'll make sure no rebels will rise up to snatch away his battle armor. (It's a shame, really. Castiel was one of the best soldiers in his garrison, almost in the entire Manor. And now he'll have to die. Violently.)

Michael reigns his thoughts back in to the current situation. Ah, now let's see..

Lucifer's "Boy King" comes off as very ill and fragile. He is void of colour (aside from the mottled black fingermarks), and his body is unmoving. 

There is not a single shred of evidence that this boy is anything but a drugged up, half-demonic slut, his existence acting as a mere plaything for Lucifer's amusement until the time comes to wear his skin.

So. The kid's good.

Too good. What is he, eighteen? Nineteen years old?  A mere child.

A child notorious for the capability of great evil and dark power. And still, Michael can barely get a look at that abominable soul, let alone size up the exact level of power lying within the battered frame: Sam Winchester is more than capable of understating his abilities.

So he's definitely a great threat. An indeterminable size of threat, but much more capable than previously imagined.

Michael never expected the information this little reunion with his little brother would be very specific anyways.

Besides. There...

There is something..possessive about the way Lucifer clutches his broken vessel to his side, something uncharacteristic in the way his grace is fluttering about.

Hmm. Noted.

Michael raises the eyes of his temporary vessel to meet Lucifer's. An unspoken exchange occurs between the two archangels. An understanding passes between the two brothers, through a slight sneer and flick of the eyes.

Michael nods shortly, flashes Sam Winchester a tight smile, and leaves.

***

Castiel steadies his wings as he flutters into the near-empty barroom. 

This is getting ridiculous. He's gone through dozens of leads, tortured a few demons, trekked almost every drinking establishment and drug den in this GODDAMNED city

with such little feedback and-

oh. There she is.

Castiel doesn't turn around just yet: he knows well enough that she must have detected his angelic presence by now.

He looks about the room: dim, warm, something like music blaring from a beat up old jukebox. The barkeep seems to be engaging in a game of billiards with two of the three patrons.

Slowly, he makes his way towards the third patron. She's sitting at the back with her head lowered, hands toying with a nearly empty glass of whiskey.

Castiel slides in to the seat across, unsure of how to begin. She doesn't stir upon his arrival, though he can hear her heart rate increase dramatically.

"Clarence" she laughs, slowly raising her head. Messy, blood matted hair falls limply by her shoulders, and Castiel finds himself alarmed by the current state of her face.

Both eyes swollen, bruised cheeks, a horrible gash running down her lip. The fingers running along her drinking glass are bandaged up, and her clothes are covered in dry blood.

"How in the hell did you find me? "

She's warded herself from angels and demons alike: it was not an easy feat at all.

Castiel doesn't respond at once, first reaching his hand out to inspect a particularly nasty abrasion on Meg's neck. 

"It wasn't easy. I believe I smote three demons and a law firm to get enough information. These wounds are serious; what happened?"

Meg's laugh is both derisive and tragic. She pulls out a flask from within the confines of her (slightly blood stained) leather jacket and empties the contents into her dwindling glass.

"I love that you pretend to care. I've heard you've been up to all sorts of crazy shenanigans lately, Clarence"

It is evident from the edge in her tone and the glare in her inky eyes that Meg does not trust Castiel. Still, she makes no move to remove his searching hand.

"So you went rogue and stole yourself a Vessel. And here I thought you were an honorable member of the God Squad."

Even if Meg wasn't a daemon, Castiel still wouldn't be able to heal her wounds ably: they've been heavily inflicted by some darker daemonic magic. But he can ease the pain from her host, and thus relieve a portion of the suffering from Meg herself.

"So let me guess: your new Righteous Bestie wants you  to pull another Grand Theft Vessel, this time on his little brother."

The sound of outdoor bustle is heard as a man walks in through the door.

Meg swallows a mouthful of alcohol before continuing, biting her lip and squinting at Castiel with determined snark.

"Yeah, I've gotten pretty well-informed over the past couple of weeks"

"I can see that" Castiel wipes the mess of sticky blood pooling around her collar bone.

"And you've been busting your fine angel ass to find me because... You need me to help you track down the baby Winchester."

Castiel can sense she's reaching for a weapon. Her bruised eyes are hard, defiant. She's resigned herself to torture, but she's not going down without a fight.

"I'm not going to hurt you" Castiel murmurs softly. Her wrist freezes at his gentle touch, and incredulity replaces every other expression on her assaulted features.

"I need your help, yes. But I think you need mine as well"

Meg tilts her head with a admitting jerk of the eyebrow. Yeah. Okay, fair enough.

"You got a plan in that pretty little head of yours, Clarence?"

Castiel smiles a little and slips his hand into his trenchcoat as he gets. "We should speak somewhere a little more private. But first,"

He turns to the right, where the most recent customer is steadily approaching their table 

"We need to pay your tab"

Castiel flings his angel blade into the man's chest, and the demon within him fizzles orange before he collapses dead to the ground.

The angel removes his blade from fallen corpse. 

The billiards players are completely unaware of the commotion: barkeep sunk the eight ball in, that's $500 cash right there.

Good for him.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please??? Let me know??? If this is still good? Is this ridiculous???   
> I just don't know


	13. Rose Rose Rose Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SEX. then Dean and Meg are introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING. there is a kind of violent, a little weird, sex portion to this chapter. If this should make you uncomfortable, I suggest you scroll down to the first "*" you see, as everything after that "*" is more plot important than the kind of weird sex.
> 
> I don't write smut often and I'm sorry it's not very good!

The way his chest heaves to swallow death soaked air; the way his exposed abdomen tenses when he moves, and the sight of each curve of muscle wrapped around his tall, slender frame.

The way he looks as he stands amidst the scattering of butchered demon scum, with blood still trailing off his red soaked hands.

Sam lifts his head and Lucifer can see his hazelgrey eyes are blazing, a storm of lust and fury. The boy's features are no longer tainted with tears of shame and fear; he stands tall, beautiful. Perfect.

Lucifer is overwhelmed with desire for that blood stained, muscular vessel. He can barely contain the craving to wear that delicate skin and feel the rush of ultimate power.

But not yet.

He's still having too much fun satiating the needs of his current vessel. (He's already hard at the sight of Sam's half naked body.)

"Feel better now that you've blown off a little steam?" he asks casually. Dear fucking Father who art not in heaven, this boy has the worst kind of hold on Lucifer.

Sam's eyes flash white like Lilith's, which often happens if he's overcome with bloodlust and power. He does not smile (he really never does), but Lucifer still catches the glimpse of a dimple.

Lucifer moves forward, wings flaring with dominance.

"Come here" he hisses, and grabs Sam's sticky red wrist. The Winchester resists fiercely, but the dimple is still there, and his eyes are still white.

 It's only been a couple weeks, and look where he is now. Father fucking bless.

Lucifer pushes him against the grimy warehouse wall, still gripping those bony wrists in his vice-like grip. He sinks his nails into Sam's skin, hard enough to draw blood.

Sam just laughs (a little hysterically, to be honest), and lets Lucifer press and grind their bodies together. The young vessel bites his bottom lip, hard, until blood spurts out and down his chin.

Cheeky bastard.

Lucifer grazes his teeth against the now-damaged lips, sliding his tongue into Sam's mouth. The Winchester tries to move his face away, so Lucifer let's go of one hand to grab Sam's cheek and force his head in place. Lucifer keeps up his rough, dirty kisses until Sam relents and bites back a little, free hand clawing into an exposed shoulder.

Lucifer twists Sam's face to the side, crushing his cheek against the wall. He nips at the ear before licking the side of his face, the trailing his teeth down and leaving bruises all along Sam's throat and chest. The archangel is fully erect, and he grinds the bulge of his hardened cock against a half-mast Sam.

The friction is ...heavenly...but not enough. Lucifer steps back a little, grabs Sam's waist, and flips over his vessel so that his tight little ass is exactly where it needs to be.

So far, Sam hasn't made a sound, but upon this change of position, a maniacal giggle escapes his bleeding lips. Still, he bucks his body, almost throwing Lucifer off him.

"Easy, lover." Lucifer murmurs, tugging down the waistband of Sam's jeans. The vessel is facing the wall, but Lucifer knows without checking that Sam's eyes are daemonic black.

He runs his fingers along the curve of Sam's now exposed ass, reveling in the smooth skin. With one hand, he grips Sam's glorious shoulder. Then he bites the edge of his own thumb, letting out a trickle of blood and grace.

He takes this grace-slick finger and slowly circles around Sam's hole, then presses in, ever so gently. Sam lets out a hiss and fists his knuckles into the wall in front of him.

Lucifer continues circling and pressing, sliding his fingers not just inside of Sam, but also along the shaft of his half-hard cock or his swollen balls.

"Alright?" Lucifer whispers, and Sam hisses back a sigh of affirmation.

Another finger in, then a third. Sam is moaning through clenched teeth now and Lucifer is licking the base of his neck, the gorgeous muscles on his back, his spine...

And then Lucifer fucks his true vessel. Pumps into him hard, his cock sliding in and out with desperate energy.

"Ohhh fuck. You fucking perfect slut. Ohh..."

He pushes Sam onto the ground and fucks him like that, groaning with pleasure and letting out a stream of angelic profanities. The grace along his cock is glowing and wet, dripping down Sam's ass and along his thighs.

"Lover...I just want to tear you apart...beautiful..." Lucifer moans in Old Enochian, pressing his fingers into Sam's waist.

*

He can't see Sam's face.

He can hear the soft little grunts, hisses of pain and pleasure alike. When he swipes his hand down, he can feel Sam's cock grow harder and longer, and he can see the tension in Sam's muscles.

He can practically see the conflicted expression of arousal and defiance, of fury and pleasure in Sam's now-daemonic eyes.

Except, that's not what's happening at all, is it?

Sam's eyes are clear and human, gleaming bright even in the shadows of the dim warehouse lighting.

The Devil may be inside of him, but The Devil doesn't know Sam's bloody mouth is grinning wide.

***

"We're room 240. I've flown as close as I can."

Castiel gestures at the door at the end of this dirty motel hall.  Meg takes a moment to admire greying wall paper and a carpet that hasn't been cleaned since the  Dark Ages.

"Oh Clarence, this is soo romantic"

Castiel responds with a weary glare.

"It's covert" he snaps defensively, although it's clear from the distaste on his face that he finds his surroundings below prime.

He takes Meg's arm to lead her to the room, but the demon pushes herself away.

"Look, angel, you can just drop the saintly, granny-walking  act. I don't need your he-ahhhhhow"

Meg's (super convincing) independence speech is cut unfortunately short as she takes a step that applies all the wrong kinds of pressure onto her damaged ankle; she stumbles back awkwardly into a smirking Castiel's arms.

"Sorry, Meg, what exactly do you not need?"

"Oh shut up"

Face set in a grimace, Meg leans against Castiel as she limps her way across.

The angel does a strange little rap that sounds remarkably like "Enter Sandman" and the door opens to reveal a gorgeous, albeit haggard and underslept young man.

Oh what the fuck.

Falling for Blue Eyes McRebel Angel was one thing, but now this male modeling archangel prom dress? Meg feels her demonic nature being compromised by hot soldiers of God and she is not okay.

"Cas. You got her? She's the one?"

The question is directed at Castiel, but the man's bright green eyes are concentrated on scanning Meg's disheveled, post-torture state with suspicious curiosity.

"Yes. This is Meg. Meg, Dean Winchester."

*

A small, expectant pause ensues in which Castiel looks up at the ceiling, with a suddenly very awkward demeanor. Dean stares at his friend quizzically before shifting his gaze to the stranger, Meg, who cocks up an eyebrow and flashes Dean a disturbing little smile.

She flicks her eyes down to her feet, which are toeing the edge of a very discretely etched out devil's trap.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me" Dean growls, his hand instantly flying to the flask of holy water tucked in his back pocket.

"That's your source? A FUCKING DEMON?"

Castiel steps forward and holds out a hand, his electric eyes both protective and pleading.

"Dean, stop. Listen to me: she was closest to Sam before he was turned over to Lucifer. She is the best hope we have of finding your brother and stopping the Apocalypse before it's too late."

Dean cannot believe this shit right now. His expression contorts with enraged incredulity and he glowers at the demon and the angel standing in the doorway.

"How? She's a demon, Cas, an evil fucking skank [ Meg widens her eyes with mock offense]. Even if she has information, what's stopping her from fucking us over first chance she gets?"

"She needs us far more than we need her, Dean. I know this as a fact."

Meg tilts her head in acknowledgement. It's true.

"Just listen to what she has to say. If you think she's problematic, or she attempts to interfere with our plan, I swear I will smite her dead."

Meg looks up at Cas and lets out a throaty growl.

"Daaamn, Clarence, I love it when you talk dirty like that."

Dean is nowhere near the definition of impressed or pleased with the current situation, but if Cas says they should hear this bitch out, then he's willing to at least try. He drags his heel across a piece of the trap, enough to let Meg limp over it and collapse onto the nearest bed.

Dean makes sure to redraw the line after she is safely in: gotta keep it safe.

Meg inspects an ungodly stain on the scratchy bedspread for a moment before looking up smiling maliciously at a very unhappy Dean.

"Oh gosh, Dean Winchester: the tragedy in the flesh. I knew Clarence was a naughty little dumpling [Castiel's eyes narrow], but I didn't think he'd go so far as to hijack the God Squad's crown jewel."

She pauses to run her eyes down Dean's frame in a manner that certainly could not be described as chaste.

"Can't blame him, really: angel's got good taste."

Dean's patience is wearing thin, but he'd rather not let her know.

"Then again, from what I've heard of our baby Samuel's thoughts on the subject that is your screwy family, maybe h-"

"He talked about us?" Dean interrupts, fully aware that he's being bated. He expects another creepily seductive smile, but instead the demon rolls her eyes and purses her lips in a manner similar to Sam.

"Well, you know Sammy, total open book...Really, do you even know your own brother?"

Dean isn't sure whether to act bemused or offended, so he opts for both.

"Then what-?"

"No. I just got about seven seconds in heaven with that deranged mind before he kicked me out."

"You... _possessed_ him???"

"Relax, Righty Man. It's not like I made him my meat puppet or anything. If it's any consolation, it's fucked up how powerful your little bro is"

It is not any consolation.

Dean needs a moment to stop himself from seething or crying or breaking down.

Cas frowns at Meg reproachfully, and, to her own surprise, Meg nods and keeps quiet until the elder Winchester child calms the fuck down.

Meg reflects on the rest of the story: [she hadn't managed to last long enough to see anything more than some dysfunctional family memories and disturbing thoughts. (And she certainly hadn't lasted long enough to get to experience any benefits of Sam's ~~enormous cock~~ unparalleled demonic powers).

So she gave him what she owed him: a pint of her blood.

This was back in the early days, and Sam was literally dying for a fix. He wasn't allowed to hunt, so Meg gave him an offer.

Was it worth it? No.

Meg spent a month enduring Ruby's wrath, which involved torture so intense that Hell would have been a sweet alternative. Sam was probably threatened with lives of innocent virgins if he ever tried to get his supply from anyone else, and no more possession escapades we performed.]

Meg coughs up a little blood into her hands and wipes it on the yellowing sheets of the bed. She pulls yet another flask of liquor from within the depths of her jacket and takes a generous chug.

"You want me to start from the top, Clarence?" she inquires, noting that Dean has calmed down sufficiently.

"Alright. Pop a squat you two, this is going to be a long one."

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!
> 
> OH AND before I forget, this time I'm just letting you beauties know that I won't be posting chapters maybe in the next two weeks. I mean I take unannounced long breaks between chapters but I thought I'd give you a heads up this time.
> 
> Also, if you want to follow me on tumblr and ask me questions or whatever there, my url is the same as my Ao3 name: happypancreas. 
> 
> Thanks, beauties!


	14. Sweet Soul Sister, Keep on Pushing 'til the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I would like to apologize for the heinous delay I made in updating.
> 
> Second of all, I would like to apologize for the horrifically short chapter.
> 
> Please, please I hope you haven't lost interest in this story, I just wanted to update at least something for you !!!

***

"Dearest Gabe, who are not in Heaven, and art probably out there committing depraved sexual acts instead of figuring out a way to pull your head out of your angelic ass and prevent the apocalypse your admittedly shitty family is planning, please come down to this decrepit though quaint crêperie and hel-"

"Getting real tired of your shit, dick trap"

Andy visibly brightens at the sound of the familiar irritated voice.

"Gabriel! Wow, you usually don't respond to my prayers so quickly. Here, I got you a crepe suzette"

He immediately slides a plate across the wooden table, over to the recently arrived archangel.

Gabriel rolls his eyes.

"You know my whole' love of desserts' is just part of my trickster front, right? And for the record, no one is in 'Heaven', okay? (With the possible except of Eric Clapton's tears..). 'Heaven' is the reason my family is fighting in the first place"

Andy is sensing some pretty angsty vibes around Gabriel's grace. The psychic narrows his eyes and pushes the crepe closer to the disgruntled archangel.

"Eat" he commands with laced tones. Mind control doesn't work on angels, but Gabriel is too emotionally drained to control the urges of his vessel. He takes a bite and does his best to pretend like the flavour isn't _heavenly_.

Andy isn't fooled: no one makes them quite like Mama Slatka.

"So yeah. From the last time we talked, I can confirm your silky haired friend is for sure in cahoots with darling Lucy, and by cahoots I mean they're banging eachother's brains out daily, and by darling I mean heinous, petulant, self centred, delusional-"

Andy frowns, chewing his bottom lip nervously as Gabriel lists his older brother's flaws. It's true that Sam likes to have scary sex with scary people, but would he really be willing to help burn the world for nookie?

Andy has been allied with the demons for so long that it still feels difficult for him to change sides. But after Gabriel had explained the true nature of this apocalyptic war...

"And your other brother? The pious douchebag?"

Gabriel flashes him a look that could be used as a weapon of mass destruction.

"Even after that stealthy whackjob Castiel five finger discounted the Righteous Man [now that just sounds dirty, Gabe], Mikey still managed to snag himself a half decent vessel. So we're still just as screwed as we were before. My advice is, forget about saving this dadforsaken world. Just get stoned-"

"I am stoned"

"So get more stoned! Fuck, you're a supernatural drug dealer, I'm sure you can concoct some saucy blend of vitamins to keep you flying high until Judgement Day barbecues the world. My point is, we're fucked to shit, my brothers aren't gonna calm the fuck any time soon, Heaven will be ruined again some way or another and I'm just done. I helped you out with information this far. If you're so much of a halfbake that you think you can stop this shitstorm, then fine. Die. See if i care. I'll be enjoying my kicks before this hellhouse goes up in fire."

A long, long pause ensues.

"Okay, rude"

"...yeah. I'm sorry."

"It's fine though, you're just angel- stressed. I hear that's bad"

"Not gonna lie, I feel like so much crap"

"You know I've got something that might help for that-"

"Hey, Breaking Bad, take it easy"

"Right right. So do you want to find your crazy little brother Castiel and see if he can help us save the world and ?"

"Hell yeah."

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will update as soon as possible. Again, apologies for the shortness and the delayedness. I am truly the worst


	15. Items in Mirror are Closer Than They Appear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> plooot developments :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh me oh my it's been too long. I hope this shortish chapter does not disappoint all ye who have faithfully kept up to date with this fic! 
> 
> WARNING!!! Some violent, noncon Samifer smut

"So ssstrange,"

Lucifer traces a finger along the curve of his vessel's spine. Sam's naked back is decorated with tricky scars: some are old, white remnants of past trials, while others still glisten with fresh blood.

"Really, the most curious fucking thing."

Chains rattle as Sam tries to move away.

**

"We created a house to sorta...break Sammy into being bad"

Meg coughs into the crook of her arm before continuing.

"See, 'Zazel had been pumping your brother with demon blood for years, messing around with his head. If he feels like a freak, he'll be easier to lure in the long run, right? And it totally worked"

**

 Sam whimpers against the cloth gag binding his mouth.

The Devil's lips curl into a perfect smile. He grabs the hair at the back of Sam's head, and forces his true vessel's  face onto the ground. He then climbs back on top of the shivering body, his hands dragging down onto those bony hips.

"A good little cherubim suddenly turns into a pill-popping, renegade vessel-thief, out to rescue the world from the Apocalypse;"

**

 Castiel still can't explain why Meg holds such a tender spot in his heart...or what would be his heart, if he had his own, instead of the borrowed organ that beats in his borrowed chest.

He still can't explain how or why or even when he really began to doubt the system of the Manor and his anxieties took over his obedience.

He doesn't know how he came to be at all.

 **

Sam's hole is still loose and slick from the most recent fucking, so Lucifer's cock slides in easily.  The archangel  adds a few new scars to his true vessel's bloodied back, and continues his speech:

"A filthy, heartless demon somehow falls for her enemy angel;"

**

Meg finds she cannot stop flicking her eyes up at Castiel's stupid gorgeous face. It's interfering with her storytelling, and Meg is not impressed.

Seriously, there is something so alluring about his ey-

What the heck?

She forces her attention to shift to the equally pretty Dean Winchestinator, and pushes any potentially pure thoughts out of her mind.

"Good job your daddy is such a fucking dildo, made our plan a lot easier. A bloodied, distraught, beat up Sammy stumbled into our love shack one night and stayed there ever since. Ruby got to be his blood bitch, Brady and I helped him get his vent out on useless enemy demons, and we lived like a big happy satanic family."

 But imagine, Meg, if those two kis-

"Are you alright, Meg?"

Meg rubs her newly ink black eyes back to human brown, and mutters "fine".

**

Lucifer is fucking Sam mercilessly. Dark blue bruises are already forming all over the vessel's skin, and his metal binds are chafing his wrists raw.  

Lucifer's words are now mangled between hisses and maniacal laughter.

"Not to mention the apathetic, drug-addled psychic that somehow managed to pair up with the most reclusive and non-partisan archangel, also striving to stop the apocalypse"

**

"......hey, Gabriel?"

"What?"

"Are you getting the feeling that we're..."

"Being played? Yeah. But what else can we do?"

**

All three sets of Lucifer's wings are spread out and his grace is humming at maximum power. His cock still sliding into Sam, hard enough to break an ordinary human.

"And of course, we can't forget that dirty hunter whore that got tortured in his father's stead"

Sam growls against his gag, which earns a harsh slap on the ass from Lucifer.

"That same brother who...oh, that's right. Chose to see you as a monster, instead of a brother"

**

Dean stares at Meg, his heart pounding in his chest. Isn't this wrong?

Had always been fucked up, hadn't he?

Those visions Dean had, under Alistair's knife... Sam's eyes...they were much more real than..

How long had he known about his baby brother's true nature? No, that's wrong, Sammy was a good kid, wasn't he?

Wrong. Monster. Always a monster.

Wait, what?

Dean really doesn't know:

Is he trying to save Sam?

Or destroy him?

**

One last finishing stroke and the Devil finishes, warm semen trickling off his true vessel's back.

"So  many strange things that happened to all those strange people. What I want to know,"

He bends down until his lips are touching Sam's ear.

"Is what the fuck you are."

Sam chokes out another muffled whimper, but Lucifer just hisses in anger.

"You can drop the sub act, darling. You may have been able to fool yourself, but you can't fool me"

Lucifer moves to the other side of his true vessel, careful not to trip on the mess of chains on the ground. He lifts Sam up by his throat with one hand and pulls off the gag with the other.

Pale blue eyes stare into the bruised hazel-esque.

"You've had a plan all along"

The pain and fear in Sam's expression melt away as he grins back at his archangel.

"Ah....well, yes. I suppose _we_ did"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the love of Brother Christ and Dad in Heaven, let me know what you think. Thank you so much for reading this !!! WOW!

**Author's Note:**

> for the love of love, comment  
> do it  
> i triple dog dare you  
> PLEASE


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